Bad Things
by DistrictHeathdene
Summary: Clarke Griffin is reaped as District One's female tribute, alongside her childhood friend Wells. Clarke wasn't a career, she never wanted to become a killer, but the people you want to be and the people you need to be to survive are not always the same thing and even good people can do bad things. Bellarke. HG universe and The 100 characters.
1. Chapter 1

Clarke gnawed on her bottom lip until the flesh was ragged and raw. The air around her was hot and close, as constricting as the law that required her to stand there; in a roped off section full of other seventeen year old girls while they waited to hear if they would live another day. A metallic taste filled her mouth as she tore apart the skin of her lip and the blood began to pool from it. It was a habit that her mother chastised her for, but it kept her grounded when she was nervous, the small sting was something to hold onto when everything got too much.

She supposed she had collected the habit when her father died and she had held onto it ever since, still, there were worse habits to get into.

The girl beside her was restless, wringing her hands and casting anxious glances all around. Clarke pitied her, they were all scared, some of them just hid it better.

The barest hint of a breeze wafted through the square, tousling strands of Clarke's golden hair. She had worn it down in honour of the reaping; a ridiculous custom in her eyes, to dress up nicely as you send children to their deaths. The blue dress she was wearing fluttered lazily about her knees. Clarke hated wearing dresses, they made her feel fragile, but her mother had insisted. "You'll look beautiful, Clarke," she had said, Clarke didn't feel beautiful. She felt like an animal that was caged in as it awaited the slaughter.

Her eyes were barely focused as she stood there, sweltering and chewing her mouth to pieces, but a flash of colour got her attention and she focused her eyes again in time to see a capitol woman taking to the stage. She was clad in ridiculous garb that made Clarke's best dress seem like cheap rags and she had a great wig of orange curls that sat lopsided on her head.

"Hello, District One!" The woman tapped a microphone with her fingernail as she spoke, her high pitched voice travelling across the square and lifting everyone's heads to attention. She was Vivian Yule, and she had been District One's escort for as long as Clarke could remember. She was smiling and nattering about district pride and loving the Capitol in a horrible squeaky voice but Clarke wasn't really listening. She couldn't care less about the patriotic video they aired every year or the bubbly speech the escort always delivered, all that mattered was the name on that slip of paper.

On the stage on either side of Vivian's wide, flared skirts were large glass bowls, filled with hundreds of slips of paper with the names of every person in the district aged between twelve and eighteen. Clarke's name was in there. Clarke's name was in there ten times.

She inhaled sharply. _That's nothing_, she tried to tell herself, _ten out of hundreds, nothing, nothing, nothing_. But her stomach sank all the same and heart beat sped up as Vivian finished her speech and crossed to the bowl that contained the girls' names.

"And now, the moment we have all been waiting for," Vivian beamed, dazzlingly the front rows with her chemical whitened teeth. "For the ladies..." Agonisingly slow she dipped her hand into the bowl, swirling the paper round and round with her fingertips. _Nothing, nothing, nothing. Ten times is nothing._

The taste of blood returned to Clarke's mouth. The girl beside her was weeping. _They haven't even said the names yet, you stupid girl,_ she thought bitterly, though she couldn't really blame the girl. She wanted to cry herself.

Vivian had chosen a piece of paper, all creamy and white and bright in the sun. It was fastened with a strip of black tape. Vivian's nail broke through it easily.

_Nothing. It's nothing, it's nothing._

"This year's female tribute for District One is;"

_No. Please._

"Clarke Griffin!" Clarke felt as if all the weight in the world had filled her body and turned her bones to lead. The girl beside her gasped loudly but the sound was muted to Clarke's ears. She wanted to fall down, she wanted to cry. No. She had to be brave, she knew. If they thought she was weak they would pick her off straight away, she would die straight away. She couldn't, wouldn't. She straightened her back, feeling as though a knife was already there, stabbing her between the shoulder blades.

The girls in her section parted for her easily. She walked slowly and purposefully, her head held high and her expression stony. These people would not see her cry. No one would. She wasn't weak.

She knew that the District One tributes often acted thrilled to be picked, the Career Tributes they were called, but Clarke didn't believe it for one second. It was an act, an act used to stay alive and one she may well have to adopt. But becoming a career tribute didn't mean she had to smile, it just meant she had to be brave. She would stay calm and silently angry all the way, she promised herself, the Capitol would not have the satisfaction of seeing her break. Not yet, not today.

At the steps Vivian waited for her looking like a bizarre, colourful bird with her rainbow outfit and nose like a beak.

"Well done, Clarke! Everyone, please put your hands together for our female tribute, Clarke Griffin!" Clarke's hand was forced from her side and jerked roughly upward in a sign of victory. It dropped lamely to her hip when Vivian released it. "And now, for the gentlemen!" She crossed to the other bowl, leaving Clarke alone on the centre of the stage, staring blankly at the crowd.

She pretended it wasn't happening to keep the emotion from her face; it was the only way to stay strong. But as her eyes scanned the crowd they locked onto the face she had hoped she wouldn't see, the one she had been unconsciously searching for.

The dark eyes were full of sorrow as they met hers and his mouth was open in horror. Vivian had barely spoken the male tribute's name before he scrambled forward, pushing the other boys aside.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" His deep voice was breathless as it carried across the square and his eyes never left Clarke's, though her heart sank even further at his words and she was worried that she might cry.

Vivian welcomed him on stage eagerly, patting his back as she asked for his name.

"Well here we are, our two tributes for this year," The daft woman sounded so thrilled. "Clarke Griffin and Wells Jaha!" Some people clapped, some people just looked on sombrely. Clarke couldn't see her mother's face in the crowd but she could feel Wells's eyes boring into her.

He had always said. Ever since they were little. "If you get picked, I'll volunteer to be with you, I'll protect you, don't worry," She never thought he had meant it though, never thought it would actually happen. She wanted to kick something. She wanted to kick him. How could he be so utterly _stupid_? It was bad enough that she had to go into the games, now she had to worry about Wells's life too.

If he died before her, she would never forgive herself. Not for the rest of her life, _at least it wouldn't be too long to wait._


	2. Chapter 2

Bellamy kicked the ground impatiently and a cloud of dust blew up around his boot. The boy beside him cast him a questionable glance but stayed silent. Most people had learnt not to question Bellamy, he was more pleasant that way, or so his sister would tease him. He wished she was by his side now, instead of a snooty merchant boy.

Bellamy knew he shouldn't resent the boy just because he didn't live in the seam, it wasn't his fault that he'd born into a family with a few more coins in their pockets, and the rest of District Twelve was only marginally better off than the seam anyway. Still, it was hard not to resent those from the village when Bellamy had spent all his years hungry, trying to keep his sister alive on grain alone. It was a grim sort of life; you were never allowed something just because you wanted it, only ever having the minimum.

One time he had brought his little sister, Octavia, a red hair ribbon and it had cost them two weeks of rations. His mother had hit him for it and cried afterward, telling him how sorry she was, but he never forgot the sting of her slap upon his cheek. Still, it had been worth it to see Octavia happy.

His sister was all he cared for in the world. Bellamy didn't put much worth on himself, but for Octavia, he would have done anything. His chest ached that afternoon, as it did ever year on the day of the reaping, but not for himself, for his little sister. She was fourteen, just a girl. They couldn't. Wouldn't. He'd kill them if it was her, he'd kill them, he'd kill them all.

He kicked the earth again and again as he made empty promises to himself. He wanted to hurt anyone who harmed his sister, wanted to so much that it was unhealthy, unnatural. But he had no power against the Capitol and if his sister was reaped all he could do was pray. _No_, he told himself, it _won't be her. _Her name was only in there three times. That was nothing, wasn't it? Bellamy hoped so.

His own name was in there twenty-one times. But he couldn't think about that. He had to think about Octavia.

The bullshit speech on the Capitol's generosity was almost over and the brightly coloured woman, whose name he didn't care to remember, would soon be choosing the names. Bellamy's heart thudded at twice its usual rate, so hard that he thought it would slam against his rib cage. He let his fingers curl into fists and clench at his sides, the way he did when he got angry, in the hopes that it might make him less afraid. But there was nothing that could quell his fear, nothing that could soothe the tumultuous waves of terror inside him until the girl's name was read out, and it wasn't Octavia's.

The Capitol woman ended her speech with a flourish that made Bellamy feel sicker than he already did and she crossed the stage, her heels clicking noisily on the wood. The paper slips inside the bowl fluttered slightly as a gust of wind rushed through the square. It ruffled Bellamy's curls and cooled his skin and across the square he saw Octavia with a group of fourteen year old girls, the breeze blowing the red ribbon that was tied in her hair.

He couldn't see her expression for she was facing forward, but he could imagine it; her blue eyes wide with fear and her bottom lip trembling. She was a brave girl, ballsy and stubborn and too daring for her own good at times. She didn't like to admit her fear anymore than Bellamy did, but the reaping was what truly scared her. She would wake up screaming in the middle of the night, haunted by bad dreams and she wouldn't sleep again until Bellamy agreed to lie down beside her. Usually he slept on a threadbare mattress on the floor, giving his sister and mother the only beds that they could afford, but it wasn't uncommon for him to curl up next to Octavia, his arms wrapped about her tiny frame as she sobbed her way back to sleep.

From where he stood he could see her tiny hands clutching at the hem of her dress. They were balled up so tight into the fabric that her knuckles had turned white. Bellamy swallowed painfully. He yearned to reach for her, promise that everything would be okay. But he couldn't reach for her, and he couldn't promise her that she would be safe. And that hurt more than anything had ever hurt him before.

_You've got through it before, _a little voice crept out from a sunny space in his mind, to offer him comfort. It was true, Octavia had been eligible for two previous reapings, and yet there she was, safe, for now. But Bellamy was a realistic man, a hard man because of it and often unhappy, but he was realistic. And each year the odds became less and less in her favour. And less and less in his, but that wasn't important. _Octavia_ was important. Bellamy tried to squash down his own fear, there was no room to fear for his life, he needed to think of his sister.

He jerked his head away from Octavia and back toward the stage as the Capitol woman scraped at the slips with her talon sharp nails, rooting around until she found one. _Doesn't she know how despicable she is? Why do none of these Capitol people not realise that sending children to die is wrong?_ Bellamy was incredulous, but more than that, he was terrified. The woman had chosen her slip and she was unfolding it in a tortuously slow movement.

_Not Octavia. Not Octavia. Please, not Octavia_. Bellamy's nails dug into his palms.

"This year's female tribute for District Twelve is Charlotte Morley!" Bellamy thought he might collapse with relief. It wasn't O, not this time. He exhaled deeply, not realising how long he had been holding his breath. But as he relaxed, he saw the female tribute step out from the crowd.

She was tiny, smaller even than Octavia. She couldn't have been more than twelve. A low murmur ran through the crowd, like an intake of breath. They were never happy when a twelve year old was chosen. It threw the barbarism of the hunger games into an even sharper light.

Charlotte climbed the stage slowly, with her skinny legs visibly trembling, even from Bellamy's distance right at the back of the square. He could see her biting the inside of her cheek and her fingers fumbling with her shirt hem as the Capitol's pet introduced her. A new surge of anger worked its way through Bellamy.

He thought he would feel better after he knew Octavia was safe, and for a moment, he had. But standing there watching a child head toward certain death, his anger and his fear had returned at full force.

The Capitol woman asked for volunteers but, predictably, there were none, and Charlotte remained on the stage, quivering as she thought back tears.

Then it was time for the reveal of the male tribute and Bellamy's heart continued its thrumming assault of his ribs. This was his last year, he just had to get through this day, then he would never need to worry about himself again, he could focus on Octavia, just as she deserved. Just get through this day.

The woman grabbed her piece of paper earlier this time, and Bellamy was worried he might not even hear the name over the sound of his heart. But hear it he did, and his heart almost stopped beating together, it might as well have.

"Bellamy Blake," The name travelled across the air to him like an arrow, seeking him out and capturing him in the throat. His lips parted as if to say something, but the idea that he could speak at that moment was ridiculous, he couldn't do anything. He was already dead.

The merchant boy was looking at him, but Bellamy ignored it, letting his heavy limbs propel him forward, feeling as though he were wading through water, pushing against the tide that would soon drown him. He could've made it; surely he could've made it to the stage in one piece if it hadn't been for the scream.

It was a gut-wrenching, heart-breaking scream that tore through him like a thousand knives.

"_No!_" He stopped in his tracks and turned to see Octavia running toward him, screaming his name with tears down her little face. "Bellamy, you can't! Bellamy! _Bellamy!_" Her arms were reaching for him as she ran and he wanted so desperately to meet them, but they smacked into the body of a peacekeeper instead.

"Hey!" Bellamy snapped out of his stupor and roared in anger. "Don't touch her! Don't you dare touch her!" He lunged for the peacekeeper but another appeared behind him, gripping his upper arms and marching him firmly forward. Behind him Octavia's fists pummelled at the arms of the peacekeeper as he restrained her by the stomach and her screams turned to sobs that ripped through the air.

"_Octavia!_ It's going to be alright I promise!" Bellamy yelled, twisting his neck to see her, but his promises were futile and they both knew it.


	3. Chapter 3

The room where Clarke sat was decorated with a patterned wallpaper and plush, velvet furniture; luxuries that could not be afforded in most houses in the district. She picked at a thread on a cushion by her side, smiling slightly as it unravelled. If she could, she would destroy the whole room, tear apart the ugly, maroon furnishings and scrape the walls with her nails until the paper hung off in curls. The table in front her looked as if it could use a good cleave too.

It was ridiculous, she knew her District was one of the wealthiest, she wasn't stupid. And yet no one she knew ever had as much money as people seemed to think they had. Clarke had always eaten well and her home was comfortable, the same as her friends and neighbours, but their homes were plain and the food tasteless. She was lucky to be born into District One, she knew, she wasn't starving, or homeless, or impoverished. But to call it wealthy was a gross exaggeration.

There were parts of One where people starved the same as in the poor Districts, but they never showed those parts on television. And the idea that they might get to keep the luxury items they worked on was preposterous. A boy at Clarke's school had been shot for stealing once. It became less common after that.

She drummed her fingers against the table in agitation when pulling threads had lost its excitement and Clarke remembered painfully _why _she was in the lavish room. To say her goodbyes.

Soon after Wells had been named the male tribute for District One and the audience had given the customary applause, he and Clarke had been marched off stage and inside the city hall where they were each placed in a room to wait for their loved ones. Clarke was certain she would only have the one visitor; her mother. Her father had died when she was very young, and she was an only child, so her mother was the only family she had. Clarke hoped her mother would be alright when she was...gone. Hoped that she would carry on and eventually live out her days happily. Perhaps she would get remarried, to Wells's father, Clarke was no fool, she had seen them exchanging looks over the years. At least then they would both have someone to share the burden of their grief with.

Clarke frowned to the empty room at her pessimism. She wanted to believe that she could make it out of the games alive, she wanted it badly. And she wanted Wells to live even more, but it was a fool's hope. The winner was nearly always from District Two; their tributes received special training since they were children and volunteered at eighteen when they stood the best chance. There were people in One who treated the games the same way as Two, treated them as a matter of honour rather than slaughter, but Clarke was not one of those people.

She was short and small, and although well-fed, her frame was curved, not muscular. She had no skill with a weapon, nor in hand to hand combat, and she wasn't even particularly fast. She might be able to outrun some of the other tributes, but none who were specifically good runners.

Her only real skill was her knowledge of medicine. She supposed that at least would come in handy, it may even keep her alive. Clarke's mother ran the apothecary in their town and had been training Clarke as an apprentice healer since Clarke was eight years old. Now, at seventeen, Clarke was almost good enough to take over her mother's work. She knew how to treat all sorts of wounds; burns, cuts and bruises; she knew how to soothe a fever or ease a virus; and she had been changing bandages since she was a girl. Some of the healing was done with medicine from the capitol, but much of it was still done with herbs and plants. Those skills would help her, she knew, but it didn't ease the churning in her stomach. If only she had some form of medicine for that, but nothing could remove her fear.

She spared a thought for Wells in his room down the hall. She hated him for his stupidity, for his need to be chivalrous and offer himself up to protect her. It was a valiant act they couldn't afford and it may well cost him his life. She hated him for bringing a new pressure to the games, for doubling her fear. And she hated him for making her feel so guilty. But she loved him, and a selfish part of her was glad that he would be with her. She didn't think she could do it on her own.

Clarke and Wells had been friends since they could toddle and he was the only friend she had ever cared to need. He was a good man, a kind man, and he was fiercely over-protective of Clarke. Often it had irritated her and they ended up having numerous spats, where Clarke wouldn't talk to him for days and Wells would apologise profusely until eventually, she gave in. She knew his feelings for her extended beyond friendship, they had even shared a kiss or two on occasion; Clarke _loved_ him, but she wasn't in love. She didn't want him for a lover and she didn't want his death on her hands. _Why did you have to volunteer, Wells? Why, why?_

Clarke dropped her head into her hands, pressing her palms into her eye sockets until she could see blinks of light popping in the darkness. She wanted him there, she wanted the security of his hand in hers, or his warmth at night, but it was stupid. He was going to die. They were both going to die. A sob escaped her and she clenched down hard on her lip to contain it as the door slammed open.

"Clarke!" Her mother burst through the door with a wild look in her eyes. She had tear tracks on her cheeks and Clarke knew it was bad, her mother never cried.

"Mum!" She stood up to meet her embrace, clutching her tightly when they fell into one another's arms. Her mother smelt safe and familiar, the scents of herbs and antiseptic reached Clarke's nose as they wafted from her mother's hair and clothes. She felt warm in Clarke's arms, but the woman's tears wet the shoulder of Clarke's shirt.

After a moment's embrace, she pulled back sharply to look her daughter in the eye. Abbey Griffin was a strong woman and the tears that reddened her skin had dried up around her eyes as she gripped Clarke by the shoulders. Clarke felt her face contort in pain and fear as Abbey clutched her and looked over her sternly.

"You can do this, Clarke, you can win. I know you can," Clarke began to shake her head but Abbey cut her off. "You're smart, and brave, and you know all about healing. You've spent your whole life watching the games; you know that healing injuries properly can be the difference between life and death."

"Some injuries can't be healed. I'm not good enough to fight them, Mum," Clarke wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

"You are, I know you are. You'll have a chance to train, learn how to use a weapon, you already know your plants," she looked over her daughter with large brown eyes. The two women didn't look alike; Abbey always said that Clarke looked like her father with her golden hair and blue eyes, whereas Abbey's eyes and hair were dark. They were of a similar mind though, both women were strong and stubborn; Clarke hoped that might help her in the arena. Once she had set her mind to something, she made damn sure she got it; she'd just have to set her mind on living. She tried to ignore what that meant for Wells or else she'd drown in guilt.

"You really think I could win?" She bit her lip as she looked at her mother and their eyes locked, dark and light.

"I know it," Abbey said firmly before she pulled her daughter in for another hug. The door banged open once more as a peacekeeper barged in to tell Clarke that her allotted goodbye time was up.

"I love you Mum, I love you so much," Clarke cried out frantically as she grabbed at her mother's shirt, as if that would keep her there.

"I love you more, Clarke, don't forget! I love you baby, my sweet little girl," She pressed a kiss to Clarke's tear stained cheek and then the guards were pulling her away and the rest of her goodbyes were lost as she was dragged back into the hall. Clarke was alone again.

She slapped her cheeks hastily and rubbed at her eyes, she couldn't cry anymore. Not now. People would be waiting at the train station to see what she was made of; they wanted a brave young woman, not a scared little girl. Clarke took a deep breath and combed her hair through with her fingers, trying to figure out which one of those she was.


	4. Chapter 4

The glass beneath his fingers had been cool at first but now it was clammy. Still, Bellamy could not bear to pull his hands away. The window was small and marked with grime at the edges but it overlooked the square and allowed him to watch as it emptied, to watch for his little sister.

He couldn't see her anymore though; no doubt she was on her way to come visit him. To say goodbye to him. Bellamy hit the window pane with the flat of his fist, but all it did was send a sting through his hand. He wanted to use his strength hurting someone, just not himself.

He had wanted desperately for Octavia to stay safe, to avoid being reaped and she had, but it didn't lessen the terror he felt. It was as if all his energy had been focused on fearing for his sister, and now that the horror had switched to him, the fear for Octavia and for himself had combined and doubled, smashing onto his shoulders and weighing him down. He turned and groaned, letting his body slip down the wall until he sat with his head beneath his knees. He didn't want to sit on the expensive sofa and there was nothing for him out the window anymore, nothing but a memory to take to his death.

_And what a memory_, he thought bitterly, _a dusty old town where you can starve to death in peace._ At least in the games he might get a quick death, from a tribute who had a crumb of mercy in them. Or he might not. He tried not to think about what kind of end he would meet; slowly dying of thirst or infection, or being butchered to death by a kid who had no idea how to use a knife, or one who was raised on the bloody glory of the games. Bellamy cursed. At least it was him and not Octavia. That counted for something; that was a godsend. It would be worse to watch her on the screens that to be there himself. He knew that, but it didn't make him any braver.

A sound outside the door withdrew him from his pessimism and he stood up sharply, he was quick at least, that would help him in the games. If they couldn't catch him, they couldn't kill him. But Bellamy Blake wasn't the type of man to run away and hide. _No_, he thought, _when I die, it will be in battle, not parched and dying slowly up in a tree._

"Bellamy!" Her voice nearly killed him right then, as pained and strangled as it was. It reached the room before she did, and when she passed through the heavy door she ran like a cannonball into his arms; collapsing against his chest with her shoulders heaving in sobs.

"Shh, it's okay, O," Bellamy whispered as he clutched at his sister's tiny form. Over her shoulder he met his mother's eyes. They were dark pits like his own but without the flecks of gold that girls fawned over. She was a good woman, Bellamy tried to remind himself, she had sacrificed much for her children, loved them to no end. But it was difficult to remember that when she was slumped across the table with a bottle of liquor in her fist or when she was screaming at Octavia even after the little girl's eyes were red and raw with tears. Bellamy swallowed and nodded tersely at her.

"Bellamy you have to live, you have to come back, please, please," Octavia craned her little neck to look into his eyes. Bellamy frowned and knelt so she could see his face better. His heart ached to hear the wobble in her voice and to see her face stained blotchy pink from crying. But leaving her hurt the most, leaving her and knowing he might not come back. The odds of him coming back were slim. He was strong and fast and brave. He even knew how to shoot a bow and arrow, had used one to hunt for the family a year or so back, but his mother had found out and hid them from him, afraid that he might get caught. Hunting, or poaching as the peacekeepers called it, was punishable by death. It was stupid, half the district was starving and banned from going out and getting their own food. Bellamy knew a boy who visited the forest beyond the fence much more regularly than he ever had, _he_ never got caught. At least, not by anyone other than Bellamy.

Still, despite the strengths his body had given him and his meagre skill with a weapon, people like Bellamy never won the games. No matter how good you were, the competitors were always better. Sure, there were the sick, starved kids who were scared witless and always died off soon enough. And there were the ones like Bellamy who lasted a little longer. But they were always picked off by the careers; tributes from the wealthier districts who were bred on the hunger games and had learnt to use a weapon as soon as they could toddle.

"Octavia," He murmured, "You know, I can't promise-"

"You can!" She cut him off with a whine that would have made him laugh in happier circumstances. As it was it only tore a rip in his heart and his resolve. "You have to Bell, you _have_ to!" Her long lashes sparkled with tears as she gripped his shoulders. She looked so strong then, so adamant and commanding. Bellamy smiled weakly, she looked like him. He sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"I'll try, but that's all I can promise. But I will, O, I'll try my hardest to get back to you, I promise that," He tried to convey his promise but no words could carry the weight. He meant it, if he could get back to Octavia then he would, but he had to prepare her for the worst. If he died, she couldn't shatter, because he wouldn't be there to pick up the pieces.

"You can do it Bell, you're strong _and_ fast. And brave. You're the bravest person I know,"

Bellamy thought he might cry and he bit down on his lip as he blinked at the floor, the murky carpet would be the only witness to his pain.

"Never," He looked up and offered her the best smile he could manage. "You're the bravest, and when I'm in there, I'll be thinking of you. And that will make me brave," Octavia's bottom lip trembled and he placed his index finger across it. "No, don't cry. We don't want tears on my big going away party do we?" He joked half-heartedly, hoping she couldn't hear the echoing hollowness behind his laughter. He leant forward so that their foreheads met.

"I'll be brave," She whispered to the ground. "I'll be as brave as you,"

"Good, I love you little, O. Don't forget alright?" He pulled back and looked into her blue eyes. They were still red from her weeping, but they had hardened into a stern expression that he himself had mastered years ago. His little sister was growing up; he only wished this wasn't the way it had happened.

"I won't,"

He pressed a kiss to her head and stood up. His mother approached him almost nervously, but when he hugged her she relaxed into his embrace. It felt strange to him, holding his mother so close. He hadn't done it in years. She pulled back and stared him hard in the face.

"Come home to me. I know I haven't been a good mother and I'm so sorry for that but Bellamy, you're my son. I love you, no matter what. I need you. Come home Bell, don't leave us alone." She pressed a kiss to his cheek and made to move away. There were no tears in her eyes, but the words were enough, Bellamy hadn't seen her show that much positive emotion in as long as he could remember. Another tear worked its way through his heart to think that it might be the last time he saw it too.

"Bellamy wait!" Octavia grabbed his hand before their mother could lead her from the room. Bellamy watched in confusion as she reached up and let her hair fall loose about her shoulders. She pressed into his palm the frayed strip of red ribbon. Bellamy felt as though his stomach had been ripped from his body.

"No," The word came out like he was being choked and his vision turned blurry.

"Take it, as your token. And then," She swallowed, "At least a little bit of me will be with you,"

"Octavia, I can't," His words were no more than whispers; it was all he could manage to squeeze out. His throat had constricted as though someone's hands were wrapped around it.

"You can, and you will," A single tear dripped from his lashes and rolled down his cheek though his lips curled up in a smile. She was going to be alright. Octavia would be alright, and if he knew that in his heart, then maybe, just maybe he would be able to face what was to come.

* * *

His tears had dried by the time he boarded the train and for that he was grateful. He could not afford to show weakness in front of anyone, especially now that he was a tribute. It would not do for them to think he was weak.

Bellamy was surprised, however, to see that the girl beside him, his fellow District Twelve tribute, also had an emotionless mask on her face. He had expected some tears from the girl in truth, she was such a tiny little thing, but she had proved him wrong and the only expression she showed was anger. He couldn't blame her one bit; he found a respect growing for the little girl. Along with a fierce urge to protect her. He had said his goodbyes to Octavia in the dingy town hall, but perhaps there was someone else who could use his help. The notion was oddly comforting to him.

The train looked boring, industrial at best, from the outside; a shiny silver box. But the interior was like nothing Bellamy had ever seen before. It was a raw display of the Capitol's wealth; the floors and ceilings were carpeted in a thin layer of teal fabric that was light and soft underfoot; hanging from the roof was a large chandelier, strings of multi-faceted crystals knocking against one another as the engine began to purr and casting shapes of white light on everything in the carriage. There was a small wooden table by a window, though it was so tiny that Bellamy couldn't comprehend what it would be used for, other than a footrest. Upon it sat a large silver bowl full with a selection of fruit of the likes Bellamy had never seen; glistening and colourful, their shapes were reflected in the metal of the bowl, contorted by the concave surface. Beside it were china cups decorated with pastel flowers and full with a brown liquid that smelled strongly. It made Bellamy wrinkle his nose. On either side of the mini table were violet armchairs that looked like the comfiest thing he had ever seen, laden with embroidered and sequined cushions of shades of blue and green. It disgusted him.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" A high pitched voice chirped and Bellamy turned to see his colourful, capitol escort teetering into the room on oversized heels.

"No," Bellamy replied coldly, pleased when the escort's eyebrows shot up in shock.

"Young man -"

"It's unnecessary," He interrupted her and she narrowed her eyes. He imagined she might have been a pretty woman beneath all her makeup. She had a full lipped smile, blue eyes and a little nose. But in all her garb and powder, all she looked was ridiculous.

"Beauty is never unnecessary," She adjusted her wig, "You'll learn that during your time in the Capitol I'm sure,"

"During my time in the Capitol I'll be learning how to be slaughtered," He spat. The woman's nostrils flared and a blush was visible beneath her white-dusted cheeks.

"I'm going to get Haymitch, your mentor. I hope you'll remember your manners when you speak to him," She flounced from the room, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft thud. Bellamy collapsed into one of the armchairs and ran a hand through his curls. The little girl sat down tentatively in the chair beside him.

"Charlotte, isn't it?" He turned to her and the girl nodded. She had big brown eyes like the doe he had once seen in the forest, but she looked more like a mouse than a deer. Her body was small and thin, the oversized clothes hanging off her did nothing to hide the fact that she was only skin and bones. Her hair was a dirty blonde and scraped off her neck and face into a bun though a few tendrils had escaped and hung limply over her forehead. Her lips were pale and her front teeth too big. Behind her angry mask, Bellamy could tell she was terrified.

"Well, Charlotte, I'm Bellamy,"

"I know who you are," Charlotte grinned despite their situation, bringing a smile to Bellamy's own lips, though a quizzical one at that. "I knew your sister at school," She explained, "She's a few years older than me, but everyone knows about the famous Bellamy Blake. The bravest man in District Twelve she says," She looked at her lap and fumbled with her hands, "I wish I had a big brother like you,"

Bellamy's heart ached, for the sister he'd left behind and for the lonely girl beside him. He might've said something in reply but while he was wracking his brain for words of comfort, the door slid open again and a middle-aged man with a tumbler of brown liquid in his hand staggered through. _This man is supposed to keep us alive. _Bellamy wanted to punch him already and the man hadn't even opened his mouth yet.

"Good afternoon!" Haymitch spread out his arms in a welcoming gesture, the liquid sloshing from his glass as he did so. "I'm Haymitch, your mentor. But you probably already knew that,"

"That woman told us, the escort," Charlotte said, her eyebrows furrowed in an expression somewhere between confusion and disgust.

"Effie." Haymitch took a swig of his drink, making a face as it went down. "Charming woman, no, not really. It's her first year and I already want to strangle her with her own wig. Can't be much older than you, boy," He nodded at Bellamy, "But I bet you've seen more horror in your years than she will in her entire life. Alas, that is life," He ended his little speech with a toast to the air and another long gulp of his spirits. Bellamy stared on in revulsion and loathing.

"You're drunk." He said, a bitter taste in his mouth as he watched the man who was supposed to help him survive the hunger games. He had olive toned skin similar to Bellamy's, stringy hair and a disgruntled expression. There was stubble across his lower face that only added to his dishevelled look. He looked up at Bellamy's words, his grey eyes seeking the source of the sound.

"Yes boy, I suggest you try it. It's the only way to get through the bloody games."

"You're supposed to help us get through the games! My sister-"

"Yes I saw the girl. You want to get back to her I know. I can't help you, boy. I used to help them, gave them everything I had. But they kept on dying anyway. And you'll the same with or without my help, so why should I waste my time, hmm?"

Bellamy stood up, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

"Bellamy," Charlotte warned him in a soft voice but Bellamy didn't care. Haymitch laughed at his anger and stood himself, though he seemed to have more difficulty remaining upright.

"You look like a strong lad, and angry. Put a knife in your hand and I'm sure you'd do well enough," Haymitch appraised Bellamy's tall, muscled form. "But the thing is, for you to win, this little one," He gestured to Charlotte, "Has to die." Bellamy swallowed. "You see now?" He sighed and sat back down.

Bellamy turned to Charlotte beside him with her big, scared eyes and her wish for a big brother, for someone to protect her, and suddenly winning didn't seem such a desirable prospect. _Everyone dies_, he reminded himself,_ I have to get back to Octavia, I promised_. It was entirely likely that once they got into the games he and Charlotte would each go their own way and he'd never see her again, until he saw her picture in the sky. But he knew that wouldn't be the case. She was too fragile, too young, too much like his sister.

"No she doesn't," He replied, turning back to his drunken mentor. "I'll help her, and you'll help us both."

"You're brave," Haymitch seemed to approve, "I used to be brave. You remind me of myself, when I was young and arrogant, when I believed that life was worth living. Hell, I'll help you as much as I can. But tomorrow, I'm no kinder when I'm sober, but I'll be of more use,"

Bellamy supposed it was the best offer he was going to get.

* * *

**A/N *Siiigh* I just really love Bellamy. Hope you enjoyed this, please leave me a review! - J x**


	5. Chapter 5

Wells's breathing was low and soft beside her. Clarke counted his breaths as they passed his lips, hoping the rhythm might calm her down. She would've used her own breathing as a marker, but it was too shallow and erratic with nervousness.

The two of them sat side by side on a velveteen sofa that Clarke found herself sinking into every time she relaxed her posture. Wells too held a rigid position, his back straight and his face forward. _He is afraid to look at me,_ Clarke thought, suppressing a wry laugh, _he is afraid that I will be angry with him_ _for volunteering_. Clarke _was_ angry, but she had pushed the feeling down with all her other suppressed emotions; she needed Wells, and he needed her, and with what they were about to be thrown into, they needed to be a team. The last thing Clarke wanted was for them to fight between themselves, they would be fighting other people soon enough.

Clarke sighed and pushed her hair back behind her ears. Wells turned at the sound, she had known he would, but all she had to offer him was a small, fake, smile while they waited. So far, Clarke's day had included a lot more waiting than she had anticipated. It was agonising.

The only sounds were two sets of lungs breathing in and out and the purr of the train as it sped toward the Capitol. The train was beautiful, Clarke knew, but it did not interest her. She would've destroyed its beauty in the same way she had wanted to destroy the city hall, but she didn't think her mentors would treat her kindly for it. It _would serve them right for making us wait,_ she scowled. It was an expression familiar to her face, Wells used to tease her for it, but he said nothing now.

When the carriage door finally slid open, the sound was strange to Clarke's ears, too loud compared to the soft sounds from before, like she had come to the surface after being submerged in water. Two people entered the room, the door thudding shut behind them. Clarke felt heat flood her face, they were so calm, so...arrogant looking, with their high held chins and sauntering walk.

The mentors were a man and woman, one each for each of the tributes. Clarke knew that some districts were not so lucky in their pool of victors as One, where there were several would-be mentors to choose from. She knew from watching a lifetime of televised games that Twelve had had only one living victor left to them, and he was a sour man and a drunk. He must've been good at something when he was younger, good at killing, she supposed.

The male mentor was young, no older than twenty-five, Clarke would guess, and he had smooth tan skin and tousled brown hair. His face was handsome, but it was cruel. His smile was too much of a sneer and his eyes held a darkness despite their blue irises. The woman was older, thirties perhaps, with blonde hair darkening with age, faint crow's feet by her eyes and a physique that was too muscular for a woman. Wells stood up when they entered and Clarke followed suit, trying to mask her irritation with a smile, though the woman's expression showed her that she hadn't hid it well enough.

"Hello, tributes," The woman said with a polite smile as she sat herself in an armchair opposite Clarke. "My name is Diana, and this," She gestured to her male counterpart, "Is Gloss. We will be your mentors during your time in the hunger games."

"I'm Wells," Wells extended a hand to the mentors who took it graciously, Clarke swallowed bile. These people were killers; they should act like it, not hide it away beneath pleasantries and soft-styled hair.

"Yes, you volunteered," Diana's eyes twinkled and Clarke could've sworn that a blush had sprung to Wells's cheeks. _Perhaps it is just the light_. "You must be very brave. Tell me," The woman leant forward, her eyes flicking between the two teenagers, "You did it for love, not glory, didn't you? Because we could use that for a very good angle, it would draw in tons of sponsors. Hell, it doesn't even have to be true, as long as you can act it! Lovers would make for very dramatic television,"

"We're not lovers," Clarke spat before she could think. She felt sick. Good television. That was all her life was worth anymore. Diana's eyes narrowed slightly but she smiled all the same.

"No, of course not. You're Clarke, yes?" Clarke nodded silently. "Excellent, well, it is traditional for a female victor to mentor the female tribute and vice versa, so I imagine you and I will become very well acquainted, Clarke." Diana's voice was too sweet, the words sticking to her tongue. Clarke wondered how many people she had killed. She looked like she wanted to kill her.

Gloss, Wells's mentor chuckled at her side, sweeping a hand through his hair effortlessly. He was very handsome, but Clarke couldn't find it in herself to be attracted to him. He was too false, as if he had spent too much time in the Capitol.

"Shall we leave the ladies while we talk strategy, Wells?" Wells bit his lip at his mentor's suggestion, his eyes on Clarke. _I'll be fine,_ she thought wilfully, as if he might hear her. Maybe he did, for he dragged his eyes from her face, and followed Gloss through the automatic door, leaving Clarke alone with a woman whom she had already decided she despised.

"Clarke," Diana spoke after a moment of silence, Clarke didn't look at her, she was watching the landscape whizz past in streaky colours through the window, it made her head hurt at the speed it was going, but she pretended it didn't. "I know you don't want to be here, no one _ever_ wants to be here, no matter what they say in their interviews,"

Clarke allowed a glance at Diana's face, her eyes were heavy lidded but the irises were a youthful blue-green.

"It's a strategy, and right now we need to discuss yours," She continued. "You're from District One, you're older, you're healthy and you're pretty. That puts you in a good position sponsor wise, the odds are in your favour, and sponsors will be lining up to support you, if you can convince them to,"

"How do I convince them?" Clarke snapped her head up and Diana laughed softly.

"Smile, for one," Clarke pulled her lips up slightly. "Better. Play to your strengths Clarke. You're from One, a district close to the Capitol, so play up to the Capitol. Let them believe that you love them, no matter what your true feelings are. You're pretty, revel in it. Wells is clearly head over heels for you, _use_ it." She paused, waiting for Clarke to reply, but she merely nodded in silence. She hated to admit it, but what Diana was saying made sense. Wells's affection could give her much-needed sponsors, but she couldn't use him like that, could she? If they were allies, the sponsor's gifts would be for him too, it would be for his benefit too...Clarke gnawed on her bottom lip.

"How did you win?" She blurted out suddenly. Diana smiled into her lap briefly before meeting Clarke's eyes with her own. They looked alike, Clarke realised with a jolt, with their golden-blonde hair and blue-green eyes. _Cold and stubborn, the both of us._

"I won the same way that you will, I used my head,"

* * *

Clarke pressed the button on the remote. There was an uncomfortable lump in her throat as she hugged her knees to her chest at Wells's side. The talk with their mentors had not lasted long, a taster, Diana had called it, a preface to the mentoring that would occur once they reached the Capitol. Clarke had been drilled by Diana on the skills she possessed, and she had offered them up lamely, feeling less confident in them when they passed her lips than when she had thought of them privately. Diana had surprised her though, latching onto Clarke's medical skills eagerly. Her instructions were for Clarke to learn more offensive skills during the training, as well as practicing her knowledge and use of plants and healing. She should talk to the other tributes and make alliances before the games started.

And now, curled on a large bed beside Wells, across from a flat screened television, Clarke was about to find out who her allies, and her opponents, would be. She didn't know what Wells's mentor had said to him, Wells didn't tell her, and she didn't ask. But he agreed to sit with her while she watched the recaps of the reapings.

Clarke's heart ached at the way he sat so stiffly next her, afraid of touching her, of getting too close. Clarke had never wanted Wells's love in the way that he had offered it, but she needed his affection now. It was too big, too scary to go into alone, so swallowing her own screams of _'selfish'_ she leant into his side, sighing happily when his arm snaked around her, holding her close.

His long fingers worked through the tangles in her hair absentmindedly, the way they had always done and Clarke buried her face in his chest, inhaling his comforting scent as the screen flashed to life.

As District One, their reaping was displayed first. Clarke stiffened as she watched herself walk to the stage and frown at the crowd, wincing when Wells tore his way to her in his fit of gallantry. The voiceover announced their names and ages, declaring that they looked 'a promising pair of tributes'. Whatever that meant.

The tributes from Two were both volunteers, as always. Clarke paid special attention to them, District One and Two usually allied in the games and she wanted to know what she was in for. The boy was monstrous, at least six foot tall and rippled with muscle, a dangerous grin across his square jaw. The girl was shorter but equally as burly with a frown to rival Clarke's and dark, beady eyes.

The only other tributes that caught Clarke's eye were a handsome boy with dark hair from Four and his fellow tribute, a wiry redhead girl, and surprisingly, the tributes from Twelve. The girl was called first, a tiny mouse of a girl who looked terrified. But when the boy was called, another girl ripped from her sector, screaming for him and hitting the peacekeepers that held her back. The commentators revealed that she was the sister of the male tribute as they zoomed in on his face. He was tall and broad for a District Twelve boy, and angry. He was the last of the tributes to be called, and he stuck in Clarke's mind.

The District Twelve tributes were usually no threat and died off early on, a product of their malnourishment and lack of training. But this boy didn't like he would submit to dying easily, he looked fierce, and he frightened her.

"What do you think?" Wells's asked when the screen returned to black, his voice low and dry from lack of use. Clarke looked up at him from where she was nestled; his dark eyes looked to be examining her, reading her. He had a habit of doing that and it unnerved her, as if he could see right through her and tell what she was thinking.

"Two look awful, Four look okay," She dragged her eyes away and stretched. "I think we'll be at the Capitol soon," She mused and her voice sounded far away, as if another girl was saying it, on another train.

"I think so too," Wells agreed with her. _About what? The tributes or the Capitol?_ Clarke decided she didn't want to know.

* * *

**A/N I'm not really sure about this chapter, I prefer writing from Bellamy's POV. Still, I hope you guys liked it, please leave me a review to let me know what you thought! - J x**


	6. Chapter 6

Bellamy scowled, wanting nothing more than to bat away the hand that was dusting his chest in black powder.

"Remind me again," His voice shook with tension and the Capitol prep woman looked up at him with huge, round eyes that blinked too much. "Why it's necessary for me to be half-naked?" He finished with a narrowing of his eyes. The woman blinked. She was small and squat with a round middle that infuriated Bellamy. In Twelve people were starving and this silly blinking fool gorged herself so much that it showed on her body. Her bloated skin was painted pastel pink, Bellamy supposed it was meant to be pretty, but it made her look like she had just emerged from a hot bath with scolding skin. Hot baths were another luxury they couldn't afford in Twelve.

"For the parade, tributes wear costumes that reflect their district's primary industry," The woman said meekly as she continued to dab at his skin with the powdered sponge. Bellamy sighed and ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Yes, I know. We're coal miners, how is this," He gestured to his bare chest, "Relevant to mining?"

"It's coal dust, from the mines," The woman finished decorating him and reached to place a large helmet on top of his head. Bellamy was so tall compared to her that she had to stand on a stool to do so. The helmet was a heavy thing with a bulbous light on the front that glowed an obnoxious amber when switched on. That and a pair of well worn trousers and beaten up boots were all there was to his outfit.

"Why do I have to be half naked in order to represent coal mining? You do know this isn't what real miners wear?" He spat at the woman as she fussed with his hair and put more of the powder onto his face. "No of course you don't, I bet you've never even left the Capitol have you?" The woman didn't reply.

Bellamy knew somewhere deep down that he was being unfair. This woman didn't orchestrate the games, didn't prevent food from getting to the districts or torture the people who lived there. It wasn't _her_ fault. He knew that, but it didn't make it any easier to like her. Maybe she didn't do all those things, but she didn't do anything to stop them either.

"You're a handsome boy," She offered him a smile, "It will gain you sponsors,"

"I'm going to die! Why do they care what I look like?" He groaned at her silence. The parade was going to be awful no matter what he was dressed like. He didn't relish the thought of being displayed for hundreds of leering Capitol faces so that they could make bets on how long he would live. He didn't like it, but he couldn't prevent it. That's what Octavia would say_. There's no use getting upset Bell, it won't change anything._ Bellamy could hear her voice in his head.

His chest ached. He missed her already, and he'd seen her just that morning. It felt like a lifetime ago though. _She'll be watching_, he thought to himself, _she'll be watching for you Bellamy, so don't screw it up. _

"Just tell me Charlotte's not topless too?" Bellamy forced his thoughts away from Octavia, onto another little girl, another little girl who needed his help. He tasted bile at the thought that she might be paraded around in similarly seductive garb. _She's a child, they wouldn't._ Though in truth, Bellamy was beginning to think there was nothing the Capitol wouldn't do.

The woman's eyebrows rose, but they were so pale against her scalded pink skin that you could barely tell.

"Charlotte?"

"The little girl? District Twelve's female tribute?" Bellamy's voice was an exasperated sound and the Capitol woman flinched under his hard stare as she stepped down from her stool.

"I don't know what she's wearing, her stylist will have seen to that. I'm just the make-up artist, I don't get to make the choices," There was a weight on the way she said that, that reminded Bellamy of his earlier thoughts, that she wasn't the one to blame. But it was difficult not to blame her when she stood there in all her fake and beautified glory, while she couldn't even remember Charlotte's name.

"Speaking of stylists, I'm going to get yours," She nodded at him curtly before grabbing up her kit and scurrying from the room. Bellamy bristled and stepped toward the full length mirror so that he could at least see how awful he looked before he went out to face the crowd. And the other tributes.

He had watched the recaps of the reaping on the train with Charlotte before they reached the Capitol. She had looked even smaller when compared to the other tributes. The tributes from One looked strong enough, the boy volunteered, _no surprises_, Bellamy thought. He looked a little flustered at his reaping, but Bellamy didn't doubt that he could kill viciously. The careers always did. The girl was a stony looking thing, pretty he supposed, but that as probably just another strategy. Attractive tributes always reeled in sponsors. _Well,_ he had thought wryly to himself, _she won't be disarming me, looks or else wise._ He planned to stay as far away from the career tributes as possible.

An idea that was only made more appealing when the tributes for District Two were reaped. They were ugly, burly things the both of them. They looked as if they enjoyed beating up babies in their spare time.

The rest of the tributes looked average at best, but it didn't mean Bellamy was better than them. Besides, he'd have Charlotte to look out for. He'd promised her, promised that he would protect her in the arena. Bellamy made good on his promises, especially when they were made to little girls who reminded him of his sister. _No, don't think about Octavia_.

He had turned off the recaps once it got to their reaping; there was no way he wanted to relive that moment. Charlotte hadn't seemed to mind.

He wondered what she was doing now, what horrific get-up they had dressed her in, whether she was still projecting her stoic facade, or whether she had finally broken down. He wondered too what Octavia was doing. She'd be waiting to watch him in the parade, he knew, but would she be watching in the square with the rest of the district? Or huddled by their mother in their tiny shack of a house?

Bellamy stroked his left wrist softly, where the red ribbon was fastened to him tight. The make-up artist had wanted him to take it off, but he had glared at her so fiercely that she let it be. The fabric was worn and frayed, but it was home, it was his sister, and there was no way he was taking it off. _"You'll have to cut my arm off if you want me to get rid of it,"_ He had told the Capitol woman, he wasn't lying.

The reflection was just as bad as he had expected it to be. He did have a toned chest, product of years of hard work, but he wasn't as heavy as some of the other male tributes who had had more to eat. Dressed in the powder he looked like a fool, a dirty fool. The helmet was ridiculous and the whole concept was a giant mockery.

The cough behind him drew his attention before he saw her figure in the mirror. Bellamy's head snapped round to face his stylist, Alodia. The stylist was a stark contrast to the prep woman, but it didn't make Bellamy like her any more. Alodia was tall and lean with bones jutting out beneath skin that was pea-green. Her eyebrows were tattooed into sharp points and she had vine patterns decorating her arms. Her lips were the same shade as her skin so that it appeared as if she had none.

"Bellamy," She smiled politely and the dark line where her lips pressed together was all that could be seen. "How do you like your outfit?"

"I don't." Alodia's eyebrows shot up and Bellamy rolled his eyes, Capitol people were so easy to offend. _Good._

"Why not?" She pursed her invisible lips.

"I'm supposed to be going to fight to the death, not selling my body. It is irrelevant and humiliating, like everything you Capitol peacocks do," He rubbed at the ribbon on his wrist. Alodia followed his motion until her gaze fell upon the tatty strip of silk. To Bellamy's surprise and relief, she didn't mention it.

"I suggest you smile more at your interview Bellamy, no costume can gain you sponsors if you insist on acting so utterly dislikeable," Alodia picked at her nails as she spoke in a voice that almost suggested boredom.

"I'm not here for you to like me,"

"On the contrary, I do like you, you're bold. Rude? Yes. Brash? Yes. But bold, and brave. I saw your reaping; I don't think you're as unkind as you want everyone to think." She looked up, her dark eyes meeting his, "But you're right, I don't have to like you. The _audience_ has to like you. If they like you, you'll get sponsors. And if you get sponsors, you might just live to complain a little longer. Or maybe to see that sister of yours again," She stepped towards him and smacked away the hand that was fiddling with his helmet. "Now come, you've got a parade to attend,"

* * *

To Bellamy's relief, he saw that Charlotte was dressed in something more modest than he was. She was stood by their chariot, stroking the neck of a dappled grey horse as she looked around nervously. When she noticed Bellamy, her pale lips curved up in a smile. Her face was also covered in synthetic black 'coal', but at least most of her skin was covered. Her outfit was much the same as Bellamy's except smaller with the addition of a loose black vest. Her helmet was balanced atop of mousy braids and it wobbled when she walked toward him. Her stylist tutted quietly but neither tribute paid him any mind.

"Bellamy! I'm glad you're here, all the other tributes scare me, they're so big and they look at me like I'm a meal," She bit on her fingernails anxiously. Bellamy felt a jab of rage as he glanced around the other chariots. Something glimmering caught his eye and his gaze landed on the District One tributes. The glimmering he had seen was their costumes; much more elaborate than his and Charlottes, their costumes were composed entirely of different gemstones, casting of colourful streaks of light as they moved.

The blonde girl was looking at him. She smiled prettily at Bellamy when she noticed that she'd been caught out in her staring. Bellamy grimaced, crossing his arms across his chest. _So that's how it'd going to be huh? You're stony for the Capitol and smiling for me? Well I'm not buying it._ The girl frowned at his expression and turned away.

"Don't worry," Bellamy turned his attention back to Charlotte, "I'll scare them back," He grinned and the little girl smiled a mousy smile. He let his eyes do another scan of the tributes and found that the blonde had gone back to her staring. '_What is your problem?_' He almost yelled. But then he remembered, her problem was that they had to kill each other.

"Come on," He offered Charlotte a hand into their chariot and tried to ignore the burning in the back of his head where a pair of blue eyes were surely fixed. The stylists made their final adjustments to the outfits, the horses brayed and the Capitol anthem roared through the quiet chatter. Charlotte gripped onto Bellamy's hand behind the wooden front of the chariot, where no one could see.

Bellamy let her. It would be good for him, to have Charlotte holding on to him, to remind him why he was there, what he had to do. At least that's what he told himself. _Oh, Octavia. I wish I was there with you now, instead of here_. He cursed himself, _Charlotte _needed him now. His thoughts were so loud that he almost missed the announcement of District One's tributes. He focused back in on the present just in time to see a curly golden mane disappear from view, her jewel encrusted dress leaving spots of colour on his vision long after she was gone.

The brutes from Two followed, their outfits made of hammered gold and steel, reflecting the light as much as One, but not so prettily. Then there was Three, bound up in wires. Four were wrapped in nothing but fishing nets. Bellamy was suddenly much more grateful for his costume.

Five, covered in lights like the Christmas tree someone had erected in the town square one year. The peacekeepers tore it down and beat the man who had put it up. Six, decorated in nuts and bolts and metal tools. Seven, dressed as trees. Bellamy missed the forests by his home.

Eight, outfits made of odd, mismatched scraps of textiles. He stroked the ribbon on his wrist with his free hand, his heart pumping faster.

Nine, Bellamy couldn't tell what they were dressed in; his mind was whirring and his heart beating too fast to focus on much else. _Don't be scared, don't be scared, stupid. It's just a parade. _Eleven's chariot rolled out of view. Bellamy exhaled, _did I miss ten? Is it us already?_

Their horses trotted forward obediently and Bellamy had to count his breaths to keep calm. He switched on his headlamp, stupid though it was, and let Charlotte squeeze his hand too tightly.

And then they were past the stable doors and out into the view of the crowd.

"Ladies and gentleman, the tributes of District Twelve!" Bellamy was blinded, blinking in the brightness of huge lights surrounding them. When his eyes adjusted he could see the crowd as a rainbow sea, hundreds of faces grinning and cheering. Some of them were even cheering his name.

The horses carried them down the long path at a steady pace, their hooves crushing flowers that carpeted the floor. A laugh escaped Bellamy in his disbelief. He'd never thought people would be throwing roses at his feet. Charlotte looked up at him with a bemused smile.

Just as Bellamy's head was starting to hurt from the bright lights and onslaught of noise, the chariots drew to a stop in a long line in front of a balcony where the President himself was stood. He was an ugly man, with skin pulled too tight over his skull to hide his age and lips blown up to a ridiculous pout. As he looked over the tributes there was a heart-stopping moment where Bellamy was sure he was staring right at him. But then his eyes moved on, and the moment did too.

President Snow commenced his usual speech about the wonder of the Capitol, glory, sacrifice and pretending that he cared about anyone's life but his own. It made Bellamy's skin bristle with anger. It wasn't until the very end that his speech differed from the usual dribble he spat out each year.

"And now, for a special announcement. A very, unusual circumstance, a once in a lifetime opportunity as it were," The President paused for effect, his inflated lips curling upward as he looked over the crowd. There was a hush, like an intake of breath as they waited to see what he had to say. Bellamy felt his face form a frown in confusion.

"As a mark of the Capitol's generosity, a reward for the faithful service of the Districts and a celebration of their sacrifice; this year, and this year only, two victors may be crowned to show the Districts that loyalty, is rewarded." There was a collective gasp. Bellamy turned to face Charlotte, her little chest rising and falling with rapid breaths and her doe eyes glistening in the light.

* * *

**A/N I really enjoyed writing this chapter, so I hope people enjoy reading it! I know, two victors is a long shot...but it's happening, I can't deal with the amount of sad otherwise. Please let me know what you think! :) - J x**


	7. Chapter 7

"_Two Victors!"_ Wells exclaimed for the seventh time as they exited the lift. _Or was it the eighth?_ Clarke couldn't remember. "But that's amazing! We could do it Clarke, we could win, go home!" Wells's face looked so sweet that she smiled back at him, taking both his hands in hers.

"Yes," She smiled, "We could go home," She omitted her darker thoughts. He was right, the chance for two victors _was_ incredible, and a chance she was going to cling onto with both hands. When the President had first announced it, there had been disbelief, and then an overwhelming surge of joy as she imagined seeing her mother again, imagined both of them getting to return home.

But then she had looked around, past Wells's shining face, and seen the other tributes in their celebration as well. Just because there would be two victors, it didn't mean it would be her and Wells. The other tributes were still better than them, and there was still a disarmingly large probability that they would die. But Wells looked so happy; Clarke kept those thoughts to herself.

"Yes, it's a wonderful opportunity, but it doesn't mean you can be slacking. You still need to work hard, those people still want to kill you, so no slacking," Wells's face dropped as Diana cut in coldly, breaking his heart so Clarke didn't have to. She felt an odd surge of gratitude for her mentor.

"I just meant," Wells began.

"I know what you meant, and you're right, but it's not an excuse to stop working, unless you fancy dying. You've got training tomorrow and I want to speak to you before you go, so I suggest you get a goodnight's sleep," Diana interrupted him as she pushed open the door to their accommodation. "Clarke, your room is third on the left, Wells, yours is first on the right,"

Their quarters were just as grand as the train cabin had been, with thick carpets that muffled footsteps, harsh electric lights and absurdly coloured furniture, but Clarke had no interest in admiring it, deciding instead to follow her mentor's advice, and retire to bed.

She said goodnight politely to Diana and Gloss and clasped Wells's hand before entering her room and revelling in the comfort of a closed door. Clarke exhaled loudly with her back against the smooth surface of the door, letting her eyes flutter closed for a moment before twisting the lock and examining the space that would be entirely hers for the next four days.

A manic giggle escaped her lips and she clapped her hand over her mouth tight. _Four days_. That was all she had left, four days before she was thrown into an arena where twenty two children would try to kill her. It was absurd, and absolutely terrifying. The sort of terrifying that sent Clarke sliding down the door into a heap on her soft blue carpet, her head in her hands and great sobs ripping their way through her throat, burning and choking on their way out.

_Get up_, a part of her was screaming, but it was drowned by her tears. And Clarke knew it was better to break down now, in the safety and privacy of her room than in the games, where losing even one moment could mean death. _Her death._

Clarke whimpered into her palms. Who was she fooling? She wasn't brave! She wasn't a career, she wasn't even kind. She was a selfish, scared little girl. Her body wracked with sobs that hunched her over and the cut glass of her dress dug painfully into her skin. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand as she stood tentatively, crossing to a mirror on the far side of the room.

For the parade her stylist had clothed her in a dress that was truly magnificent. It clung tight to her waist and breasts, flowing at her hips until it reached the floor in a floaty swirl of fabric. Despite its loose hem though, the dress was the heaviest item of clothing Clarke was ever like to put on, for glued and sewn onto every inch of it was a multitude of gem stones in blues and reds and greens, every colour Clarke could imagine. When she had put it on, Clarke had felt beautiful. But now she just felt a wreck, another product of the Capitol. They were already taking her life, in that dress she was letting them take away who she was. She tore it roughly from her body, slicing her palms on the points of jewels in her haste to get it off and scratching the balls of her feet when she stepped out of it.

Clarke screamed in rage, kicking the thing away from her, but it only hurt her toes. Even the underwear they had put her in was tight and uncomfortable, full of wire to push up her breasts or lace that scratched at her skin, so she tore that off too.

She felt better when she was naked, but her face was still streaked with makeup so she crossed the floor to her bathroom, and stepped into the shower. Clarke had never had a shower before, at least not one like that. In One, they had washed in baths, tiny buckets if you were poor and big marble affairs if you were rich. Clarke had fallen somewhere in the middle thanks to her mother's profession and she had enjoyed their bathtub ever since she was young. She liked to put her head under and feel the hot water untangle her hair. They had no shower heads though, and the multitude of knobs and dials confused Clarke, making her shriek when the water came out ice cold. Finally, she found a jet that was the ideal temperature and lathered herself in a sweet smelling soap, washing her face clean and running her fingers through her golden curls.

When she was done, she didn't look as pretty, but she looked like her. The steady stream of the shower had calmed her, washing away bad feelings as it washed away the powder on her skin. She dressed herself in a robe made of fluffy white towelling material and sighed as she scooped up the mess she had made. _At least no one saw me_, she thought, though she knew that there must be a camera hidden in the room somewhere. The thought made her uneasy and she pulled the bath robe a little tighter around her body.

She found a loose top and trousers to swap her robe for and glancing around the corners of the ceiling, searching for hidden cameras, she exchanged the towel for the clothing before pulling back the thick white duvet and crawling into bed. The bed was much larger than her bed at home; she could have slept with her body along the width of the bed and still had enough room. As it was, she curled up right in the centre with her head nestled between two pillows and the duvet up over her shoulder. Her damp hair pressed against her cheek sending drips into her eyes where they mingled with the salt of her tears.

The first time she had cried it had been a frenzied, angry thing with great sobs that had doubled her over and turned her face a hideous blotchy red. But curled in a bed too big for her, her eyes adjusting to the dark, her crying was quiet and sad. The sort of crying that eases you into sleep, and it did.

* * *

When Clarke woke, it was to a loud rap on the door.

"Get _up_ Clarke; you've got training in half an hour!" The voice was muffled by the door but Diana's sharp tone was easily recognised. Clarke groaned and buried her face in the pillow. She washed and dressed quickly into a pair of tight fitting trousers and a dark green t-shirt. She braided back her hair wet, the curls would be out of control later, but she didn't have the room to care.

In the dining room, Clarke found both mentors and Wells already sat at a dark, hard-wood table laden with a feast of Capitol delicacies. Gloss was talking to Wells over plates laden with bright orange fruits and meat in a thick sauce. Diana glared at Clarke with raised brows while she drummed on the table with her fingertips in an overt gesture of impatience.

"Sorry," Clarke mumbled as she dragged a chair across the floor and sat down beside Wells. His dark eyes flitted to her briefly before he was drawn back into the discussion with his mentor.

"Eat, Clarke, you won't be getting many more hearty meals," Diana exhaled and gestured to the food in front of her. Clarke made a face at her rudeness but did as she said. _She's right_, she thought as she piled a plate high with bizarre foods she'd never tasted before, _once I'm in the games I'll be living on weeds best case scenario_. She ate greedily after that thought, taking as much as she could handle. Diana waited until she was finished to offer her a stemmed glass of cloudy green juice.

"Its apple," She smiled slightly at Clarke's sceptical expression. "So, it's the first day of training today, I want you to learn to use a weapon. You can choose which; they'll have all sorts, bows, spears, knives, swords. You're fairly small, so you should stay away from the heavy ones. Have a go at all of them if you like, but pick one and make that your speciality. By the end of today I want you to be an expert at using it." Diana rattled off instructions and Clarke nodded. It was a lot to ask, for Clarke to master a weapon in one day, but they didn't have much time. It was a difficult task, but a necessary one.

"What about the other tributes?" Clarke sucked her juice through a straw as she stared at Diana.

"Make friends. Don't make that face, you need allies. The two of you can't make it alone. You're careers, so your best bets are two and four, get to know them, convince them to work with you. Find out what they're good at, and what their weaknesses are. There will come a time when you have to break the alliance, and you need to be ready for it."

"And the others? Do we focus on the careers? Or make the rounds?" Clarke pushed her glass away from her and tucked a golden lock behind her ear, her mind set on the day ahead. The night before she had been repelled by the idea of the careers, terrified of becoming one, but in the light of day, it was clear that was the best path forward. Clarke was a smart girl and she wasn't ready to die just yet.

"Find out as much as you can about the others; find out who's dangerous and who's not. But don't ignore the weak ones at first glance, a few years ago a girl played that game very well, pretending she was weak and killing viciously later on," Diana smiled slightly, cocking her head. "You know, you remind me of my daughter, Clarke," The woman's stern facade dropped for a moment, revealing a mother's warmth. "Glimmer. You look a little like her, I'm sure she'll be rooting for you once the games start."

Clarke chewed on her lip. She didn't care if she resembled Diana's daughter, she just hoped the girl never had to suffer the games. Diana glanced at the watch on her wrist, a rose-gold adornment that reflected light around the room.

"It's time for you two to go," she stood up, shaking Clarke's hand, "Good luck,"

* * *

The elevator ride passed in an uncomfortable silence until the doors opened onto the basement training area and Clarke finally turned to speak to Wells. Whatever words of comfort she had planned were lost when she saw his face. His lips were pressed tight together, his hands were trembling at his sides and his dark skin looked almost grey.

"Wells," She snapped, "Don't look so scared," His head twisted to look at her, his features contorted with hurt.

"I'm _trying_," He moaned pitifully.

"Well, try harder. These people want to kill us, Wells! Don't make yourself look like such an easy target," A small voice in the back of her mind told Clarke that she was being unfair. _He's your friend,_ it screamed, _he came for you! He did this for you!_ But she knew she was right, the other tributes were going to kill him straight away if they thought they could. _Besides, I never asked for this, I never asked him to volunteer._ Clarke held her tongue as they made their way into the training area.

Once inside, she swallowed a lump in her throat. Most of the other tributes were already there, looking just as menacing as she remembered. Two were stood like great hulking monsters, a boy with greasy hair from Seven shot her a nasty smirk as she walked in, and the tall boy from Twelve was there, watching her entrance. His dark eyes narrowed at the sight of her, and Clarke thought she might wither beneath his stare. He was stood next to his tiny companion, looking as if he would gladly kill every one of them in defence of her. Clarke wanted more than anything to avoid his gaze, but she made herself meet it instead as she offered him a polite smile. _Let him try to scare me. I haven't done anything to him_, she felt her lips pull up in a wider smirk, _not yet._ He wouldn't dare attack her with the tributes from Two by her side.

After a few moments, a tall Capitol woman with curled black hair and olive-toned skin began directing them through their training; instructing them on obligatory tasks and advising them on where best to spend their time and Twelve was _still_ staring. _Stubborn arsehole_, Clarke wanted to growl but instead she sighed and focused on the instructor. _Idiot, now he'll think he's won!_ That in itself was a stupid thought, the only competition Clarke had against Twelve was the competition for her life.

When the woman finished talking, the tributes dispersed in all directions and Clarke watched Twelve cast her one last dark glance before shuffling his protégée to a camouflage station. Clarke looked up at Wells, who she was pleased to see had regained some colour. She felt bad for snapping at him, but she wouldn't take it back, not here, with all those watching eyes.

"Weapons or friends first?" She asked him, tucking her hair behind her ears the way she always did when she needed to concentrate. Wells looked over her shoulder before he looked at her face.

"Looks like we might find those things in the same place," Clarke followed his eyes and saw the tributes from Two and Four already standing by the weapons sector. The girl from two was laughing whilst she swung a heavy object around. Clarke swallowed a groan, she didn't want to have to ally with any of them, but she did want to stay alive, and it seemed like allying with the careers was the way to do so.

"Hi," They looked up at Clarke's curt greeting and awkward wave. "I'm Clarke," She held out her hand with a smile whilst they looked on blankly. The boy from four was the first to reply, his blue eyes twinkling as he grinned at her. Clarke blinked at his beauty; _he's bound to get tons of sponsors_.

"I'm Atom," He took her hand firmly and winked at her. Beside her, Wells coughed. Atom's eyes flickered between the pair and he dropped Clarke's hand. "This is Anna," He gestured to the girl from his district with the thin nose and long, red hair. Anna didn't offer her hand to either of them. "And this," He waved at the District Two tributes, "Is June, and Russell," Clarke was extremely glad that they didn't shake her hand. She didn't think she'd have any bones left if they did.

"This is Wells," She pushed him forward slightly, and he nodded to the group. "So," The flesh of her lip was itching to be chewed, "Where should we start?"

* * *

When Clarke collapsed into her bed that night her muscles were aching, but she had been successful in her training. She had tried out several weapons, eventually deciding that a knife was the most useful to her and she had made allies, if not friends.

Atom, she genuinely liked, he was sweet and funny and he flirted with her whilst they trained which sent Wells bright red. Anna was nice enough, for an ally. She was quick with a knife and knew how to make nets out of almost anything. Russell's weapon of choice was a large spiked mace that he could swing with surprising accuracy, but he was equally as lethal with his fists. June was as sour of personality as she was of face, and she made Clarke's hair stand up in fear. They were formidable enemies all of them, even Atom, who could throw a spear at great distances. Clarke supposed she would rather fight with them than against them.

The careers haunted her thoughts as she drifted into dreams but at least this time she didn't have to cry herself to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

The food burnt his tongue as Bellamy shovelled it in, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. The food was definitely the best part of the Capitol, the rest of it could disappear and he would be a happier man for it. But the food...it had been a long time since Bellamy had gone to bed with a full stomach, and with mere days left before he was thrown into the arena, he was eating as much as he could.

"Slow down boy, the stuff's too rich for you, it'll make you sick," Haymitch half scorned, half laughed from his seat opposite. Bellamy's mentor wasn't as greedy with the platters laid before them, choosing instead to take gulps of a suspicious brown liquid. Bellamy narrowed his eyes. Haymitch had said he would stop drinking to help them. Bellamy knew he shouldn't be surprised, what people said and what people meant were usually completely different things.

"I'll be fine," He muttered, but he rested his fork on the table nonetheless. He _was_ starting to feel a little sick, though perhaps that had something to do with the imminent training, or the fact that he only had two days left without twenty two mad teenagers trying to murder him. _Not mad, just scared,_ he reminded himself, but it was difficult to see scared teenagers when you looked at the career tributes.

The ones from Two were both eighteen like him, but even the girl had more mass than he did. They had ugly faces with cruel smiles plastered on them nearly all the time. And when the smiles were gone, they were replaced with frowns that were even worse.

District Four was the lanky girl with a face like she smelled something bad and the boy who was handing out winks to all the girls as if he wasn't about to kill them.

And One, Bellamy frowned at the thought; one was the sour-faced boy and that stupid blonde girl. _Well, I'd be sour too if I had the misfortune to fall in love with her,_ he stabbed a fried potato fiercely with his fork, gaining him a questioning look from Charlotte.

"Ready to go?" He stood up abruptly, pushing the chair back in with a loud squeaking scrape.

"Yeah, sure," The girl hurriedly placed her silverware by her plate and stood up after him. She was still getting used to working the cutlery, Bellamy could tell. In the seam they didn't have much cause for knives and forks. When food came you ate it quick; people weren't worried about etiquette, they were more concerned about when they might get their next meal.

Behind them, Haymitch muttered a good-bye, but Bellamy didn't bother to return the gesture. Haymitch had promised to help them, and he'd failed. Bellamy had no time for him. _He's trying_, came the tiny voice of reason, the voice of understanding, but he quashed it down. _Well, he's not trying hard enough._

"Are you okay?" Out of earshot in the little elevator Charlotte risked a glance up at Bellamy. He smiled to himself, his hard glare scared most people away, not her though. No, she was brave. The thought warmed Bellamy slightly.

"I'm fine, Charlotte," He offered her the best smile he had. "Just a bit tense,"

"Well that's to be expected," She nodded with a wisdom to her words that was well beyond her years. She was an interesting child. She had the same curiosity as Octavia, but she was much harder than his sister had ever had to be. She'd had to be hard, be strong. Charlotte had grown up in the care centre; Bellamy had learnt when he'd questioned her on her life before the games. The thought had saddened him, both the girls' parents had died in a mining accident and she had been choking on tears when she told him.

"You don't have to talk about it, Charlotte, its okay," He had said hurriedly as they sat in his temporary bedroom. The girl had wiped her eyes and sniffed, shaking her head.

"I have to be brave," She whined, "Brave like you, I just, don't know how," She had looked so sad at that moment that Bellamy did something he rarely did, he offered her a hug.

Physical affection with anyone other than his sister was foreign to him. He never hugged his mother, not until he had said goodbye to her. He never shared idle touches with friends, and when he was with a girl, he wouldn't even kiss her if he could help it. Touches were important to him; they weren't something he gave away lightly. But he had held Charlotte close that evening while she sniffed away her tears. It reminded him of comforting Octavia, something he might never do again. At the pang that had caused him he had had to pull away, but he held the little girl by her shoulders.

"You are brave, Charlotte. Don't let anyone tell you different."

With his mind back to the present as the elevator slid down to the basement floor, Bellamy glanced to the girl by his side, the tiny child with the horrible past and a horrible future. Her head was held high and her face was a stern mask that he himself often chose to show the world. Looking at her, so small and young but so defiant, he couldn't help but think that she was braver than he was.

The training centre was almost full when they arrived, the same as the day before. Yesterday's training had been something Bellamy threw himself into with a determination. It was a chance to learn something that might keep him alive before the games, his only chance. He and Charlotte had focused on weapon's training yesterday, Charlotte with a set of little knives she found and he with a bow and arrow. It felt odd using a bow again at first, but he quickly remembered the way of it, with the bow in his grip, the string thrumming as he released it and the arrow embedding itself in the target with a thump, Bellamy felt alive. _Good_, he thought, _I won't for much longer_.

When they arrived there was no lengthy talk from the trainer, they were allowed to get stuck in straight away. The Careers looked at him when he entered, the big brutes smirking as they clutched heavy-handed weapons and the others looking on sullenly. The blonde was there, that stupid blonde girl who wouldn't quit staring at him. Bellamy looked straight past her.

"So, survival skills today?" He asked Charlotte instead. The girl wrinkled her nose and shook her head. Bellamy was about to open his mouth to protest. That had been their plan after all, how would they survive without knowing how to build a decent fire? Or find drinkable water? But Charlotte stopped him before he could start, with a raise of her brows.

"Why don't we warm up with the weapons first?"

"The Careers are there,"

"Are you scared of them?" She cocked her head, teasing, and Bellamy sighed, scratching the back of his neck in nervousness.

"This isn't a game, Charlotte; we want to stay as far away from them as we can,"

"Of course it's a game, Bell. It's the _Hunger Games_, remember?" Before he could retaliate, Charlotte had started walking over to the weapon racks and Bellamy had to stride after her or risk leaving her alone with the careers.

"What," He pushed his arm between her and a row of knives as he hissed, "Do you think you're doing?" Charlotte sighed, swerving his arm and instead of moving for the knives, picked up a heavy metal bow, holding it out to him.

"You're good at this, Bellamy. _Show them_." She shook the bow in his direction slightly, somewhere between an invitation and a taunt, until he grunted and took it. _Damn girl's too much like me_. The bow fitted in his hand the way nothing else ever had, the cool metal flowing through his skin and the hard surface just right in his grip. He exhaled loudly as he picked up a quiver of arrows and slipped them onto his shoulder as if they weighed nothing before stepping in front of a target, far back enough to look impressive, but not so far that he would miss.

He could feel the eyes of the other tributes on him as he settled into his stance and fitted an arrow to the bow; his fingers were trembling with the tension as he pulled the string taunt. He hoped they couldn't tell. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Charlotte, nodding at him encouragingly, and the careers glaring. _She_ was glaring, _One_. Bellamy's grip released and the arrow went soaring forward, hitting the centre of the target with a satisfying thud. He smiled smugly to himself. It was like the deep sigh after holding your breath.

And then he was firing the rest of the arrows in quick succession so no one could ever say he faltered. By the time he was out of arrows the target had punctures in all the places he had aimed for; heart, lungs, brain, balls. He chuckled to himself as he turned away from his arrow-filled target and placed the bow back on its stand carefully. He let his eyes skim over the careers' dumbstruck faces without focusing in on any of their features; instead he nodded to Charlotte who looked oddly proud of him. It made him think of Octavia, and the way she had cheered for him every time he brought home food, or lifted something heavy, even in the mundane tasks of his life, she was there, cheering him on. And now she wasn't. Bellamy swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed thoughts of his sister aside. _Later_, he told himself, _later, when no one can see you cry._

Charlotte was waiting for him to speak, so he stood straight and smiled.

"Survival skills now?"

* * *

Bellamy twirled the little stalk between his finger and thumb, watching the leaves blur green and they spun back and forth. The plant had wide, flat leaves that were shiny, dark green with a waxy surface. He blew out with a sigh.

"I don't know," He admitted exasperated, "Safe?" He looked up from the plant into Charlotte's face, but her expression was as bemused as his. She shrugged and Bellamy groaned, dropping it into the reject pile. He and Charlotte had spent the past ten minutes trying to identify which plants were safe to eat and which weren't from a group provided to them by the training centre. So far they had found that they knew less about plants than they had originally thought and Bellamy was growing hot and agitated. It was one thing to be able to shoot an opponent, but if they couldn't eat, he wasn't going to get the chance. He could use the bow to hunt animals, but there was no guarantee that there would be edible prey in the arena, or that he could find it, catch it and cook it.

"Screw this," He shoved the pile away from him in annoyance, their carefully organised leaves strewn over the floor in a green mess. Bellamy cursed, tugging at his hair.

"You could've used that one," His head snapped up at the sound, for it was an unfamiliar voice that had spoken. Standing over him, her arms folded and her eyes boring through his skull, the girl from One was looking at him in a way that made his blood boil. He could feel the smugness radiating off of her. He hated it.

"Thanks, that's really helpful. Why don't you scurry on back to your bodyguards now?" Bellamy snapped as he hastened to re-sort the plants, just to avoid looking at her. The dumb girl didn't seem to get the message though, for instead of doing what he said, she knelt down beside him, her hands deftly arranging the vegetation into three neat piles.

Her hands were very small compared to his, Bellamy noticed, cursing himself for noticing anything about her. _She's a career, your enemy_, he told himself, but it was oddly fascinating to watch her work, placing the leaves and berries in her piles seemingly without thinking. Her pale hands worked much faster than his had, and her organisation was a lot better. When she was done she tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ears and smiled at the floor.

"There, you have three piles, edible, medicinal and dangerous," She spoke softly as she gestured to them.

"Alright, Princess. You showed me up, are you happy now?" Bellamy shifted his body away from her as he frowned, _why did she sit so close?_ The girl looked at him, her eyes bluer close up. And not just blue either, they were flecked with green and grey, like stormy seas that Bellamy could only imagine. District Four was near the sea, but Bellamy had never seen it, he had read about it though, and he could almost see the waves in the girl's round irises. _Stupid, they're just eyes_.

"Princess? My name's Clarke," She blinked her lashes as she frowned and a small crease formed between her eyebrows. Bellamy resisted the urge to groan out loud.

"I don't _care_ what your name is, Princess. You know, Princess, it's a term of endearment. Can't you feel the love between us?" He rubbed his temples as he spoke in an effort to relieve the headache which was fast invading his mind. The girl's frown turned from confusion to anger and Bellamy's lips lifted in a smile. _Good_, might be she'd leave him alone now.

"I could teach you," Clarke persisted, "About the plants. If you'd teach me how to shoot a bow like that," She turned her head toward the target where the feathered plumes of his arrows were still stuck in the foam.

"Why would I teach you?" Bellamy snorted. He didn't need help from the careers and he definitely didn't want it. It was probably all a ruse anyway, the girl was trying to kill him off. Yes, that was it. But the waves in her blue eyes grew stormy all the same.

"Because I'm good at what I do, and so are you, and it could help you stay alive." The girl's voice was steady, but Bellamy could see the agitation across her face. It should've satisfied him, but it twisted his stomach instead.

"Look, I don't need District One Princesses coming and telling me what to do just because they get special training-"

"_Training?_" Clarke's voice shot through an octave and her nostrils flared at the words. "I didn't choose to be in the games, I had to say goodbye to people I love too, I'm being sent in with the rest of you! We're just the same, you're no better than me, and you're no worse. But _you_ don't know which plants will kill you and which will save your life, you could've, but now you won't." She stood up abruptly, her lips pressed closed in a hard line and her eyes burning right through him.

Her hair caught the light as she stalked away, but it didn't matter. She was walking away, and that was what was important. Bellamy shook his head to himself, his fingers scratching at the skin of his neck and his heart pounding. He didn't know why, it was his first confrontation with another tribute and it was the least dramatic thing that could have happened. It could've turned into a fight if he'd wanted it to, his fingers itched to curl into fists and he could imagine her on the floor before him, golden hair splayed around her head and her face bloody as his fists met her nose again and again. It was an odd sort of fantasy for a teenage boy; he should be thinking about fucking girls, not fighting them. But Bellamy supposed he was an odd sort of man, and violence was all he had left now.

The ribbon on his wrist felt tight.

"Why did you do that?" Charlotte's voice cut through his thoughts and his fingertips pulled back from the worn satin. He was glad for the distraction, he might have torn it off otherwise, and that was wrong.

"I didn't do anything," Bellamy exhaled deeply. He couldn't meet Charlotte's eyes, couldn't meet them because they were brown and not blue; couldn't meet them because her mousy hair was tied back with elastic and not a strip of ribbon.

"She could've helped us, we're terrible at this, you know we are," Charlotte's voice betrayed her age with the whine that it was and Bellamy's head snapped up. The girl's face was full of sadness and tears were swimming in her eyes. She had a brave front, but it was falling apart. _She's a child,_ Bellamy told himself, you _were supposed to be her brave front, and all you've done is shout_. And yet he couldn't bring himself to agree with her. He was a stubborn man at the best of times and cruel at worse.

"She's a career, Charlotte; we want to stay as far away from them as possible," He bit his lower lip and softened his voice, "We'll get better at this, you don't need to worry. I'll look after you, we don't need anyone else." The girl nodded with a small sigh but Bellamy didn't notice. Even as he spoke, his head was turning of its own accord to where the careers were settling down for lunch, but this time, all he was greeted with was a mane of gold hair. Clarke was no longer staring.

* * *

**A/N Yes Bellarke interaction! This wasn't as long as I'd hoped but I'm happy to be getting another chapter up. I hope you enjoy it, please review! - J x**


	9. Chapter 9

_Bellamy._ The boy from Twelve's name was Bellamy. Clarke knew, not because he had graced her with it, but because it was currently flashing beside his stony face on a wide screen before her. Accompanying it in great silver print was the number 10.

10! Clarke frowned, wondering how he had managed to get such a high score. _Perhaps he scowled and insulted them until they raised the number._ She was still bristling from their interaction the previous day.

The third day of training had been better, and worse. It was better because Atom showed her how to use a spear with accuracy, it was better because she _finally_ managed to hit the target with her knife from ten feet away, it was better because Anna had given her a smile rather than a scowl. But it was worse because it was the final day of training, it was worse because Bellamy's eyes had latched onto her with a loathing so intense she could've fainted, and it was worse because whenever she looked at Wells his face was full of sorrow.

On the plush sofa he seemed a thousand miles away despite being just the other side of Diana's body. When Clarke dragged her eyes from Bellamy's angry mask and his ridiculous score, she risked a glance at her district partner, her best friend. All that faced her was his profile, his long nose and long lashes, lips turned down in a frown so slight that Clarke doubted he even knew he was doing it.

He was prone to frowning ever so slightly, but usually it was in disapproval that something Clarke had done. _Don't climb that tree, Clarke. Don't skip school to find that plant you've been talking about, Clarke. Don't talk back to the teacher, Clarke._ To Wells's eyes, Clarke was always doing something foolish, something gutsy and potentially dangerous; usually for the sake of curiosity or sometimes for justice. Back home, he would be forever chastising her, warning her, giving her his most disapproving glance; but he always caved and ended up going with her. _Someone's got to make sure you don't get yourself killed_, he'd frown and look as stern as his father, the mayor, for a moment. But then he would roll his eyes and take her hand, and Clarke would know he wasn't angry, not really.

Since the reaping, that little signature frown had been less disapproving and instead filled with an actual pain. Sometimes his lips would straighten out, but that was when Clarke knew something was really wrong, for his eyes would take on the sadness that his mouth had given up.

The sight made Clarke's chest tighten with pain and guilt. She knew she had been unfair with him recently, tense and cruel and cutting. She was afraid, more than that, she was terrified. Terrified of fighting, terrified of dying, terrified of _Wells_ dying. It was resentment that she used to hide her fear, resentment for Wells's volunteering, his chivalry, because it gave her something extra to fear. It was wrong to take that out on him, especially when what he had done, he'd done for her. He didn't need to be here risking his life, but he was, for Clarke. Her heart thudded in her chest and she felt her eyes stinging.

She was vaguely aware of Diana and Gloss congratulating them on their scores (a nine for Clarke and an eight for Wells) but only because it made Wells turn his head, his wide brown eyes making him look younger and more vulnerable than ever.

"Wells," Clarke stood up abruptly, "Could I speak to you for a moment?" Her hands twisted the hem of her shirt nervously as four pairs of eyes fixed on her as her mentors, her Capitol escort and Wells's heads all snapped up. Clarke ignored the first three; it wasn't the first time they had given her questioning looks.

"Yeah," Wells stood up, his brows furrowing as he looked over her. Clarke knew that look; he was examining her, trying to figure out what was wrong. "Yeah, okay,"

Clarke nodded, blushing at her feigned formality as she led him to her bedroom and shut the door. The room was dark, the heavy curtains pulled across the window. Clarke didn't like the view; it was busy Capitol streets with colourful pedestrians and cars that spewed out thick clouds of exhaust on roads flanked by pastel fronted houses. It was too fake, all of it, and it reminded her why she was really there; to amuse them. The thought sickened her, so she tried not to think it.

"Clarke, what's wrong?" Wells asked once she had sat down on the bed, the mattress sagging beneath her like her shoulders were sagging beneath the weight of the games.

"Sit," She patted the space beside her as she spoke, her voice sounding cinched and tight as she suppressed tears. Wells obliged her request, but the way he sat was awkward and restrained, his hands in his lap, perched on the very edge of the bed. Clarke swallowed.

"I'm-" She exhaled, her voice catching when she tried to speak. It was stupid, she had it all planned out, how she would apologise for being so selfish, how he would hold her hand and tell her it was fine, just like he always did. But this wasn't like it always was, this wasn't some stupid argument, it was the hunger games, it was life and death. But he'd have to forgive her, wouldn't he? She couldn't do it alone. She couldn't, she couldn't. Something wet touched her hand and she realised a tear had dripped down her cheek into her lap.

"Clarke, what is it?" Wells turned, snatching up her hand in both of his, the sorrow wiped from his face and replaced with concern.

"Oh Wells," Clarke used her free hand to scrub at her eyes before she turned to him. "I'm so sorry, I – I pushed you away when I should've let you in. I was so scared, Wells. I still am. All I can think about is how scared I am, I was selfish I-" Once she had started she couldn't stop, the words came tumbling past her lips, as free as her tears which were now staining her cheeks.

"Shh, hey, shh, it's okay," Wells released her hand, wrapping her up into his arms instead and pulling her close to his chest. It was warm there, safe. Clarke let out a loud sob, pressing her face into his shirt to muffle it.

"You don't need to apologise for anything, Clarke."His long-fingered hands teased at her hair as he pressed gentle kisses to the top of her head. "I'm right here with you. I'm not going anywhere, okay. You don't need to be scared, I'm right here, and no one is going to hurt you on my watch," His voice was so soft, so sure, that Clarke let herself believe it, just for a little while.

She pulled back, her body still shaking with sobs, her eyes raw and her nose red from crying. She looked a state, she knew, but the way Wells looked at her she might have been the most beautiful woman in the world.

"I can't do this alone," She murmured, her lip trembling as she reached up to stroke his face, her fingertips tracing his high cheekbones, his strong jaw where a hint of stubble was just pushing through.

"You're not alone," He lifted his hand to hold hers to his face. "I'll never leave you alone,"

"Promise," Clarke whispered. He was so close; their noses could've touched if she'd wanted them to. He smelt fresh and clean and he felt strong and warm, like home, like comfort, like safety. "Promise me," she said again. Wells's dark eyes were staring at her so intently she felt he could see right through her. The way the light hit their surface, she could see her reflection in them. She wondered briefly what she looked like to him, though in her heart she knew. She'd always known.

It had never been that way for her, but now, with mere days before they might meet their ends, with his hands gripping her waist with a strange mixture of force and fragility and his full lips parted as he surveyed her face, it was different. She was different. And he was all she had left.

"I promise," He murmured back. Clarke could see him swallow as her chest heaved with the weight of her sobs and heavy breaths. Her hand was still on his cheek.

"Oh God," She groaned, and moving her hand to cup his neck, she dragged his mouth to hers giving him the kiss he had always wanted, and the one she hadn't known she wanted until now.

His lips were gentle at first, taken by surprise, but she pushed against them until he started to kiss her back, his hands clutching at her shirt.

"I love you, you know that," She sobbed between kisses. He had to know, had to. "I love you,"

"I know," He replied and Clarke wound her fingers into his hair.

* * *

When Clarke rubbed the sleep from her eyes and squinted in the daylight, she saw Vivian Yule looming over her, hands on her cinched waist and a disapproving look plastered across her made-up face. Clarke groaned, feeling her skin flush red. Wells was gone, but the look on Vivian's face made her sure that he had still been there when she entered the room.

Nothing had _happened_. Not really, they had kissed and cried and fallen asleep together. It was completely innocent, as innocent as can be between two people who are being trained to kill, but it was clear that Vivian had an entirely different idea of what had occurred.

"It wasn't, we weren't-" Clarke began stammering as she sat up but Vivian only pursed her inflated lips.

"It's interview day today, Clarke. Diana sent me to wake you, she wants to start work as soon as possible, so I'd get dressed if I were you," With a glance over Clarke's sleep worn appearance, Vivian turned and left, pulling the door shut firmly behind her.

Once her clacking footsteps had retreated, Clarke put her head in her hands and sighed, her brain whirring despite having just woken up. Thoughts whizzed through her head, competing for centre stage; Wells, the interviews. It was too much. She pulled her shirt over her head and slipped out of her underwear, _the hot water will wash it all away_, she told herself. But the heat only made her agitated and the bubbles from the tap stung her eyes when they washed through her hair. _And that will probably be the best part of my day_, she thought miserably. The last day before the games was never going to be a bright one, she knew that, she knew what she was in for, but it didn't make it any easier.

At least she wouldn't have to see Wells for most of the day. The more she dwelled on it, the more their night seemed like a mistake. What she had said was true, she did love him, so much that it was painful. But it wasn't the kind of the love he wanted, no matter how many kisses she gave him. _Oh well, we'll all be dead soon and then it won't matter_, Clarke's eyes stung once more, but not from soap.

Diana was waiting for her with her narrowed eyes on her watch as Clarke approached. The breakfast table was empty save for her mentor; Wells and Gloss must have taken their talk somewhere else. Clarke wasn't sure whether or not she was glad for that fact, ignoring a chat with Wells about her feelings was high on her list of priorities, but spending time alone with Diana was not.

The woman uncrossed her long legs and leant forward, positioning her elbows on the table beside a stemmed glass of dark red wine. Clarke resisted the urge to raise her eyebrows at her mentor's choice of drink so early in the morning.

"Clarke," Diana smiled politely. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine,"

"You're lying," Diana took a sip from her glass, "Lie better." Clarke swallowed and sighed, forcing her features into a smile.

"Oh I'm wonderful, thank you; the beauty and generosity of the Capitol is enough to make anyone smile!" The words tasted like bile in her mouth, but they were what her mentor wanted to hear; what the Capitol audience would want to hear that night when Clarke took to the stage, so she said them with feigned happiness and tried to hide the dullness from her eyes.

* * *

The dress stuck tightly to her figure, but it was at least, marginally more comfortable than that which she had worn to the parade. Clarke examined her reflection with her teeth scraping at her bottom lip, worrying the plum coloured lipstick that her prep team had generously applied.

Her interview outfit was less ostentatious than her parade outfit, but not by much. It was made of layers and layers of purple mesh with a huge ruffle about her shoulders and at the hem which fell at her knees. Jewels weighed down her ears and throat and fingers, and her shoes were much too tall for her to stand still in let alone walk or manoeuvre stairs. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a golden mess and there was so much dark makeup around her eyes that she could barely see them.

"You look nice," A voice came from behind her and Clarke spun to face him. She hadn't seen him since their impromptu tryst and anxious though she had been, she found herself flooding with relief at the sight. Wells was dressed in a dark grey suit, no stupid outfit for him.

"Don't lie," Clarke pressed her hands to her face, "I look like one of _them_," she lowered her voice as she said it and Wells chuckled slightly.

"Yeah, but better looking," He stepped toward her with a dazzling smile and Clarke found herself giggling despite herself.

"Well, thanks," She rolled her eyes, her voice dripping with sarcasm and at first she didn't notice that his hands were fitted to the bend of her waist. But when she did, her heart beat twice as fast. "Wells," She said softly, unsure how to finish the sentence.

"Don't even think about ruining that lipstick," Vivian's high-pitched voice saved her from having to as the flamboyantly dressed woman strode through the door. "Time to go you two, Clarke, you're up first,"

The queue of tributes waiting for them was almost as frightening as the prospect of going on stage, almost. The tributes from Two looked as alarming as ever and the Capitol fashions did nothing to help their aesthetics. Atom was dressed in a gaudy green suit and he winked at Clarke as she walked past, telling her she looked wonderful. Anna looked more sour than usual at his flattery and Clarke found herself ducking her head to avoid the girl's glare. And of course, Bellamy's angry stare couldn't be avoided. He was all the way at the end of the queue, scheduled to go last, but his eyes seemed to burn through all the bodies until they reached Clarke, making her feel as though she might burst into flames. She was sure that once the claxon sounded, she would be the first one he sought out to kill. The thought made her shudder. She couldn't believe she had offered him her help. _Don't think about it_, she told herself, _think about your interview_.

Someone clasped her hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go.

"It'll be okay," Wells mouthed when she looked back at him. She wished he didn't let go of her hand so fast, but it was risky enough around the other tributes, besides, the commentator was already calling her name.

"Please welcome the bejewelled Princess from District One; it's Clarke Griffin!" The sound filled her ears, almost as loud as her beating heart. _Princess,_ someone else had called her that. Not that it mattered.

Her legs felt numb as she stepped out into the bright lights and colourful crowds of the Capitol. She stretched her lips in a wide imitation of a smile and even went so far as to give the crowd a flirty wave. Ceaser Flickerman, the vibrant host, had his usual armchair placed centre stage but he stood to welcome her, kissing both of her cheeks with a grin so broad it put Clarke's to shame. This year his hair and lips were stained a grass green that in Clarke's opinion made him look rather ill.

"Clarke!" He beamed at her as he gestured for them both to sit. Clarke tried to keep her eyes on his bizarre face for surely if she looked at the crowd she would collapse with panic.

"Hello, Ceaser," She smiled coyly, tucking a loose curl behind her ear and risking a look at the sea of Capitol faces. _You're pretty_, Diana had told her, _show them_. Clarke wasn't so sure of her aesthetic appeal, but she hoped Diana was right. Attractive tributes usually gained more sponsors and thus, lived a little longer.

"What a warm welcome you have received! And I'm not surprised; no one could stay silent at a beauty such as yourself!" Ceaser flattered her and Clarke batted her lashes. The last thing she wanted to do was be reduced to silly, giggling girl whose only redeeming quality was her appearance, but it couldn't help to act pleased by his compliments. "Tell me, Clarke, what can we expect to see from you in the games? Nine, a very respectable score, more than respectable, outstanding! What's the secret behind the pretty face?"

"Well, Ceaser, there's more than meets the eye to everyone isn't there?" Clarke teased, grinning at the audience, hoping she wasn't overdoing it. "People may look at me and think, well, she's not a fighter, but I'll tell you a secret;" She paused for effect whilst Ceaser leaned in close in anticipation, "There are more ways to fight than with your fists or a sword," She made a show of winking, giggling as she did. She could imagine the sickened looks of the other tributes, the pure hatred that would be emanating from them. But this wasn't for them, it was for the Capitol, and they seemed to love it.

"Very cheeky, very cheeky! Could you, Miss Griffin, be referring to a _natural_ weapon?"

"Plants are good for more than just eating, Ceaser," She raised her brows and lowered her voice in an effort to appear sultry. If the crowd's reaction was anything to go by, she had done a good job.

"My, my!" Ceaser pretended to fan himself, "Well, best of luck to you! Ladies and Gentlemen; Clarke Griffin, our very own poison Princess!" He took her hand and held it high before her time was up and she was being ushered from the stage.

Clarke exhaled, it was over, it was done. She touched Wells's arm gently as they passed one another, and he gave her a reassuring smile. Once she was back into the tribute waiting area she leant against the wall and sighed, settling in a place where she could watch the screens and see Wells in his seat.

"Nice one, Clarke. Poison Princess! Devilish," Atom grinned beside her and Clarke tried to smile back, but all her smiles had been used up on the people of the Capitol, so it might have looked more like a grimace. Atom didn't seem to mind.

Onstage, Ceaser was asking Wells about why he volunteered. _Spew something about the glory of your district,_ Clarke found herself urging, _say anything, anything as long as it's not about me_. She knew the Capitol audience would adore the idea of a doomed love, but it would make them a target for the other tributes and for the game makers. Splitting up the happy couple would make for _such _good television.

"Well, it was Clarke, really," _No_. "We've been best friends ever since we were little, I knew I had to protect her," Wells looked so endearing then that Clarke could almost forgive the fact that he was baring their relationship for hundreds of strangers to see.

"_Just_ friends?" Ceaser prompted, a wicked gleam in his eye. Clarke's heart thudded against her ribcage.

"Yes, best friends," Wells nodded.

"I smell a rat! What do you think folks?" Ceaser gestured to the audience, who cheered ecstatically, but he let it drop for the buzzer sounded and Wells's time in the spotlight was over.

The other interviews were a whole mix of angles; the tributes from Two went for ferocity, of course; the boy from Three, a kid called Monty, was clearly a genius; Atom was charming, Anna was the nicest Clarke had ever seen her but her attempts at flirting paled against her male counterpart; the boy from Seven was sullen and cruel looking and the rest were mediocre at best. That didn't mean they wouldn't be cruel killers though, Clarke knew better than to think that.

Lastly it was Twelve's turn, and the tiny girl stepped up and retold a heartbreaking story of how she was orphaned that had the audience in tears. And then it was Bellamy.

Clarke found herself holding her breath even seeing him from a distance. The boy didn't even attempt to put on a happy face for the audience, but Clarke hadn't suspected him to. He too, had a sob story; about leaving his little sister behind, the only person in the world that he truly loved. But Ceaser had a hard time prying it out of him. The only information Bellamy would give away was her name and a tiny anecdote about a hair ribbon, though only when forced. Ceaser drew it from him when he pointed out a sliver of red tied tight around Bellamy's wrist.

"She gave it to me, as my token. She said that I should be brave for her, but she's the bravest person I know," Bellamy looked up when he said that and Clarke knew it was for his sister's benefit, back in District Twelve, rather than anybody in the crowd. She felt a pang in her chest at the thought of a little girl who looked like Bellamy, anxiously waiting for him to return. Clarke wondered whether the girl would cheer when Bellamy killed her. Not that it mattered, Clarke would never know.

Beside her, Wells squeezed her hand, and Clarke pushed the thought from her mind as the anthem started up. In that moment, she could've believed that all that existed was the soft swell of music and the familiar pressure of Wells's hand in her own. It was a nice sort of thought. Clarke held onto it.

* * *

**A/N _Oh_ Clarke and Wells! I liked this chapter, so I hope you do too. Next chapter - the games begin! Please leave me a review to let me know what you think :) - J x**


	10. Chapter 10

The sun was rising outside his window. It painted the sky a gorgeous orange above the Capitol rooftops, but Bellamy had woken long before it. He had hardly slept at all, not that he'd expected to. He had spent his last night before the games tossing and turning, screaming into his pillow for the sister he'd as good as lost.

In the light of day, his face was too pale and there were dark hollows beneath his eyes, but despite his imminent fate, he felt a little better. He hadn't lost Octavia. He stroked her scarlet ribbon, he hadn't lost her. Whatever happened in the games, he could handle that, knowing that she was safe, or as safe as could be, back in Twelve. It was better that it was him, much better. Octavia deserved a chance at life far more than he ever had. He was glad that she could have it, for at least one more year.

Bellamy sighed and swallowed the lump in his throat as he brushed his curls back from his forehead. The view from his window really was beautiful, but not half as beautiful as his baby sister's smile. He tried not to think of how that smile might falter once the claxon sounded and Bellamy was fighting for his life. Instead, he thought about how the rest of Twelve would slip her extra food to keep her content during the games, maybe even offering her a new hair ribbon as comfort. She wouldn't take it, Bellamy knew, she would be watching him across the screens with the only ribbon that could ever hold any meaning. But it would be kind of them to offer.

He washed and dressed sombrely. It didn't matter what he wore, soon he would be given a new outfit for the coming hours, days or weeks, depending on how long he lasted. It could be that it would be the last outfit he ever wore. Bellamy had never cared much about his clothes, but it was a strange thing to think nonetheless.

His mind should be whirring, he knew, thinking about all the possibilities of the arena, the weapons, the supplies, the tributes. But instead, he found himself going about his morning routine in a horrible sluggishness, as though his limbs had already given out and resigned themselves to death. _No_, he scolded himself, _wake up_. _It doesn't have to be the end, you can fight. Octavia would want you to fight._

So it was with thoughts of his sister held close to his heart that he straightened his back and strode from the room for the last time.

By the time he reached the breakfast table he had almost managed to wipe the dejected grimace from his face and replace it with his usual look full of hatred. He would need that when he faced the other tributes, along with his wits and all his strength.

At the table was the usual feast, and his three companions. Haymitch looked more resigned than ever, with a tumbler glass sloshing to and fro in his hand and a five o'clock shadow across his jaw. Charlotte picked at her meal with shaking hands and a pale face whilst Effie, the ridiculous Capitol escort, tried in vain to lighten the mood. She was tittering on about something when he sat down, but Bellamy ignored her.

His chair scraped uncomfortably against the tile as he pulled it out and Charlotte raised her head at the noise.

"You'll want to eat some of that," Bellamy nodded to her plate which was still piled high with food she had merely nibbled at. He was pleased to hear that his voice betrayed no sign of his fear or his world-weariness. The thought of Octavia burned through him like adrenaline, keeping him alert, keeping him brave.

"I can't," Charlotte squeaked, "I'm too scared to eat,"

"Everyone's scared," Bellamy replied, picking out the foods which would give him the most energy, keep him going for longest.

"You're not. You don't look scared," Charlotte tipped her face upward, her big eyes shining and Bellamy felt his heart lurch. Octavia wasn't the only one who needed his help, not anymore.

"I'm not," He lied with a smile, "Because I've got you to look after me," He shot her a sly wink and elbowed her gently. "Now eat, you need to keep your strength up,"

Charlotte nodded and picked up a piece of bread. Bellamy wasn't sure, but he thought Haymitch might have smiled.

* * *

Alodia, the skinny green stylist, wasn't exactly the person Bellamy wanted to spend what could be his last moments with, but she was all he had. So she would have to do.

"Are you nervous?" She punctuated the silence with a voice too loud after the quiet. Bellamy's head snapped up at the sound, his eyes narrowing.

"Not at all, I'm only entering into a fight to the death," Bellamy's scowl could have withered stronger women.

"I was just – never mind," Alodia crossed her legs with a sigh, playing with the golden bangles on her wrist. Her outfit was just as obnoxious as Bellamy suspected, painfully so in comparison with his; the clothes he would fight in, kill in, die in. He swallowed uncomfortably, placing his head in his hands.

Alodia had dressed him in dark brown trousers and boots; sturdy for outdoor wear and running. On his torso he wore a black t-shirt with '12' emblazoned on the sleeves in silver print, but it was hidden by the dark waterproof jacket she had given him. It had a thermal layer, she said, so Bellamy should anticipate cold. It had a multitude of pockets too, ideal for storing small scraps of food, or knives.

Bellamy's mind, which had been so awfully sluggish just hours before, was now whirring so fast he thought he might pass out or explode. His heart thudded behind his ribs, reminding him just how fragile his body was, reminding him his heartbeats were numbered. Of course, he had always known this, but the number seemed much smaller now. The rapid pulse was as if his heart was trying to make up for its lack of time. _Stupid, you're just scared. It's the body's normal reaction, idiot_. He cursed himself, that sort of thinking would only make it all worse. Instead he tried to focus on his breaths, to keep a steady head. _In, out. Count to five. In, out._

"You did very well in your training, I'm sure you'll have lots of sponsors." Alodia interrupted his calming technique. It hadn't been working, but it annoyed him anyway. It was good to have something to be annoyed at, that way he could pretend he was angry instead of scared.

"If I'm not slaughtered in the bloodbath," He snapped, clenching his fists so hard that his nails dug into his palms. Alodia winced.

"I don't think that will happen. I think you have a real chance," She continued with her spiel, her cold eyes desperately seeking his, but Bellamy couldn't bear to look at her.

"Well," He spoke through gritted teeth, "Thanks."

An automated woman's voice rang through the room and Bellamy's heart almost stopped completely. He balled his hands tight into the hem of his jacket to keep from shaking as she began her countdown. He thought of the ribbon tied round his wrist beneath his jacket sleeve and thought of Octavia. She would be watching, waiting for him to emerge onto his pedestal, out into the air. Would she be crying? No, she was stronger than that. _The bravest person I know_. He could almost hear her voice in his mind, louder than any countdown or Alodia's stiff reassurances.

Bellamy nodded numbly to his stylist and stepped into his tube, his breathing erratic and his heart pumping with all its might.

He thought of Octavia, and worried that he might never see her again. He didn't want to remember her tears as he left; he wanted to see her smile. He wanted –

The glass snapped shut around him and Alodia watched solemnly. How can she be so calm? It took him a moment to remember that she wasn't the one rising to her doom.

He thought of Charlotte in a matching tube somewhere, was she alright? Would she remember their plan? _Don't go to the Cornucopia. Look for me, grab supplies closest to you and run. Run away from the fight. Run fast and they won't catch you. Look for me. If I fall, don't wait. Just run._ His voice had been calm when he told her on the way to the hovercraft, but he was filled with panic now.

What would the arena look like? Would Charlotte remember? Would Octavia weep? Would he die? Would he die? _Would he die?_

Bellamy pressed his hands to his eyes and took a long suck of breath. _Be calm_, he touched the ribbon with his index finger. _Be calm._

The tube began to rise, pushing him up through the earth, into the arena. _Be calm_. It was a plea now, a silent plea to himself.

He rose higher and higher. Alodia was gone from his view. _Is Charlotte okay?_

A light began to fill his tube as he neared the surface. _Will I be able to find her? Please let me find her._

Wind rushed across his face and light temporarily blinded him until he blinked, and his vision was blurs of green.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, let the Annual Hunger Games begin!"

* * *

Bellamy swallowed as the commentator began a new countdown; the countdown until he could step down from his pedestal, and begin the fight for his life.

The arena was a vast mass of woodland, with tall coniferous trees stretching out as far as he could see. The pedestals were placed in a wide circular fashion around the golden cornucopia that was placed in the middle of a small clearing. Behind the Cornucopia, across from where he stood, the ground hit a steep incline, behind him, the slope was downward. To his right was a great lake, to his left, only trees. The air was fresh and green and woody, intoxicating and wonderful and reminiscent of home, but he couldn't enjoy it, not like this.

His eyes scanned the pedestals, searching for Charlotte. He spotted her easily, for she was at least a head shorter than all the other tributes. He winced at the thought; they would so easily overpower her.

Her eyes locked onto his and she gave a tiny nod of her head in his direction, signalling which way she thought they should run once the claxon sounded.

Bellamy wasn't sure, he didn't like the idea of heading downhill, he felt vulnerable at the thought of being lower than any tributes that might follow them. But uphill would use more energy, and they would be more easily caught. Besides, there was no way for him to convey his thoughts to her from this distance, so he tipped his chin in agreement.

The tributes either side of him were ones he didn't know by name, the boy from Three and the girl from Six. He swallowed as he looked around for the Careers. The girl from Two was three tributes away from him; he couldn't see the boy, so assumed he must be the other side of the Cornucopia. The boy from One was beside Charlotte.

That worried him, having her stood next to a Career. But he seemed the least dangerous of them, when the claxon sounded; Bellamy was certain he would search for Clarke, not in the least bit bothered by the tiny girl from Twelve beside him.

Bellamy couldn't see Clarke either. A strange thought reached him, and suddenly he hoped she didn't die in the bloodbath. He couldn't say why, it was stupid, he should want her dead as soon as possible, her and all the careers, but now that he knew her name...Well; he just hoped he wouldn't have to be the one to kill her.

The countdown reached the last fifteen seconds and the tributes began poising themselves to run. With a jolt, Bellamy realised he should be doing the same. There was a small rucksack not far from him that he had his eye on. That could have anything in it, but anything was better than nothing. But further away, in the centre of the clearing, propped up against the metal edge of the cornucopia, was the thing he was desperate for; a gleaming silver bow and a quiver bursting with arrows.

_Too risky_. One part of him argued. _You could kill them all with that bow, you need weapons!_ Another part urged.

Bellamy looked back to Charlotte who was biting her cheek, watching a piece of glinting silver in the grass before her. He inhaled sharply. _It's not worth it!_ He wanted to scream at her, but he was debating a much riskier prize himself. If he died trying to reach the bow, Charlotte would need any weapon she could get. _If he died._

Five seconds.

Bellamy tensed his muscles to run, his blood pumping so fast that it was almost painful. His eye caught something silver not far from him, a serrated knife. He had to act fast. _Knife, bow, pack, Charlotte. _

The claxon sounded and he couldn't think. He lunged from his pedestal with as much force as he could muster, hoisting the pack from the ground as he ran – ran toward the knife. His fingers stretched out, wrapping around the handle, and then he was crashing face first into the ground.

Grass and dirt filled his mouth and someone kicked him, their fingernails scratching at his arm, trying to break his hold on the weapon.

"No!" Bellamy moaned, rolling over onto his back and using all his strength to throw the attacker off him. They weren't as strong as he was, and not as heavy. They were sent tumbling to the ground. It was the girl from Six who had been next to him. Her eyes were wide with terror, fixed on the knife in his fist as she scrambled backwards on her hands and feet.

Bellamy turned away from her, and ran.

As he ran, he looked around wildly for Charlotte, trying not to process the sickening thuds caused as blades hit bodies and the screams that followed.

"Bellamy!" Her voice reached him before he saw her, but she was there at the tree line, clutching something in her arms. "Hurry!" Her high-pitched cries carried across the clearing but Bellamy didn't need to be told twice. He sped his pace, sprinting the remaining distance. As he reached her, he grabbed her tiny hand and they disappeared beneath the cover of the trees.

Bellamy looked over his shoulder as the trees grew thicker, and could just make out the ground, already stained red with blood.

* * *

"Okay, I think that's far enough. We can rest now," Bellamy panted, leaning forward to rest his hands on his thighs as he caught his breath. They had been running for what felt like hours through the forest.

It was a downhill run, which should have made it easier, but it didn't. At one point there had been a steep drop and Bellamy had tripped, rolling down the slope into a thorny bush.

He surveyed his palms; the tiny grazes stung, but that was surely the least of the wounds he would be experiencing.

"You okay?" Charlotte spluttered, short of breath, as she stepped toward him, taking his hands in hers.

"It's just a few scratches," He yanked his hands back in dismissal.

"That wasn't what I meant,"

Bellamy knew what she meant. There were a number of things he could've answered; tired, thirsty, hungry, upset, absolutely terrified. But he couldn't bring himself to tell her any of that, so instead he surprised both of them and pulled her in for a tight hug. He even went so far as to stroke her mousy hair. It reminded him of his sister. He tried to bite back the thought of her, he couldn't do anything for her now, but he could still do something for Charlotte.

The loud boom of a canon made them both jump; the bloodbath was over then. They waited quietly until the count was done.

"Eight," Bellamy said hoarsely. He wondered who they were. _It doesn't matter_, he shook his head, it only mattered that he and Charlotte weren't among them. He would see who they were once the sky was dark and they displayed the nightly death toll.

He shivered, though he was still warm from exertion.

"Let's see what we've got in the way of supplies shall we?" He asked with a forced brightness and Charlotte nodded eagerly.

She had scavenged a small belt of knives and a bag of dried fruit. Bellamy had his knife, and in his pack was a vial of purification tablets, a few strips of dried meat, a coil of wire and to his absolute exultation – a two litre bottle of water. It wouldn't last them long, he knew, but it meant they could rest. And that was a small wonder.

They moved a little further through the forest with their remaining hours of daylight, taking it at a walking pace so as not to use too much of their energy or their water supply. But once darkness began to fall, Bellamy suggested they stop for the night. It would do them no good stumbling around blind.

They couldn't risk building a fire, not when he knew the Careers would be out hunting stray tributes. But even as the sky turned from grey to black the air grew increasingly cold.

"Here," Bellamy unzipped his jacket and slipped it from his body, offering it to Charlotte instead. Her brows furrowed at the gesture and a small crease appeared on her forehead.

"No, you can't," She shook her head, but her eyes remained fixed longingly upon it. He could see the war within her, she was a selfless child, she didn't want Bellamy to suffer, but she _was_ cold. He could see it in the paleness of her face and lips, in the way her body shook slightly with visible shivers.

"Oh go on, I'll be fine. You need it more than I do," Bellamy managed to force his lips up into a smile and after a moment's hesitation, Charlotte took the jacket gratefully. It was huge on her, hanging down to her knees, but she did regain some colour.

Bellamy tried to ignore the goose bumps that were appearing upon his bare arms. _She needs it more. She's more important. Octavia would have given up her jacket_. Bellamy sighed, settling into a sitting position against the trunk of a tree. It was uncomfortable, but it would keep him awake. Charlotte was nuzzled against his side.

"Should we have some of the food?" She whispered in the dark, her eyes shining slightly as they reflected a great silver moon above them.

"Yeah," Bellamy squeezed her close to him. "Just a bit. Tomorrow, I'll hunt," He was a good hunter, and already they had passed animal tracks and heard the rustle of them in bushes. No, Bellamy wasn't worried about their food supply, as long as the animals were edible, they would be fine.

That didn't ease his mind though, there was no shortage of things to worry about; finding water, the cold, the other tributes, the weapons he had seen piled inside the Cornucopia. He was reminded painfully of what the Careers could do with those weapons when the Capitol anthem rang out suddenly through the hush and the seal lit up the sky.

Charlotte hid her eyes as the faces of the dead appeared above them. Bellamy couldn't blame her, but he had to look, had to know. The eight dead tributes were no one he knew by name, but he had seen them all during training, even talked to some of them. The girl from Six who had tried to steal his knife was up there, he wondered who had got her. Both tributes from Eight and Ten were gone, along with the girls from Three and Eleven and the boy from Five.

All the Careers had made it, of course. He wondered how many of the kills had been by them, most of them, he would've guessed. Had the princess killed anyone? She was still out there. Bellamy wasn't sure whether he was relieved about that or not.

He didn't want her to die, but she had to. They all had to, if he and Charlotte were to win. They _had_ to win; he had to see Octavia again. Bellamy had the urge to stroke his ribbon, an urge he always got when he was panicked or scared, but that arm was wrapped around Charlotte now.

_Octavia isn't here_, he reminded himself, _Charlotte is_. He tilted his head to watch her, her arms curled around her body and her eyelids drooping. He was all she had now, he couldn't let her down.

"Go on," He leant forward to press an uncharacteristic kiss to the top of her head, "Sleep. I'll take the first watch,"

* * *

**A/N This chapter felt really dramatic to write so I hope you felt the same when reading it! Please leave me a review to let me know what you think :) - J x**


	11. Chapter 11

**Warning: Violence/Gore (duh, it's the hunger games)**

* * *

Clarke gripped the knife so hard in her fist that her fingers ached. The blade was smaller than those that her allies had hoarded, but it was just as deadly. It could kill a man twice her size if she knew where to stick it. And Clarke did know, it was a skill she had learnt just days previous, a horrible skill, but a skill nonetheless. But when the time had come to test that skill, she had faltered, failed.

The boy couldn't have been more than fifteen, and he was no stronger than she was, a lifetime of malnourishment had seen to that. By all logical reasons, she should have been able to overpower him, or at least fight back successfully until she could sink that little blade into its mark. But she hadn't, couldn't.

Instead, she had stumbled as he advanced on her and the earth had come up to meet her back with a surprising force, knocking the breath from her lungs. He was not a menacing boy, he was thin and bony with a sunken face for one so young and fear in his wide eyes. The only menacing thing about him was the weapon in his hand; a long, flat blade that was too heavy for his grasp and could've taken Clarke's head clean off if he'd swung it right.

Laying on her back on the ground, her mouth open and her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe, she had lifted her arms above her head; a feeble shield against the impending blow. But all that touched her arms was a spray of dark blood as the boy sank to his knees and Wells stood over him, a sword dripping with gore and a grimace on his face.

He stood beside her now with the same grimace playing at his features as he and Clarke watched the dead boy's face flicker in the sky above them. His hand hovered awkwardly beside hers, seeking her grasp, but Clarke's fingers were wound round the weapon, too tight to let go.

His hand twitched slightly, so that the back of their palms brushed and Clarke sighed as the boy from Ten's face glimmered its last and disappeared, replaced by a skinny girl with curly hair from Eleven. Then she too was gone, leaving only night sky above them.

"He was going to kill you," Wells's voice broke the silence and Clarke turned to face him. His dark eyes glittered as they reflected artificial stars, but there was no natural light behind them, none of his usual happy glow. He was a hollow shell of the Wells she knew, loved. And she supposed she was the same. _It's only the first day, how are we going to survive this place?_

"I did what I had to do, to keep you alive," Wells continued; a hint of urgency to his voice. _He wants my approval, _Clarke bit her lip, _he wants me to tell him it's okay_. But she couldn't do it, he had killed someone. It was stupid, she knew, she would kill in the coming days if she wasn't killed first. He had done it to protect her! _He's trying to save us, you stupid girl!_ Clarke cursed herself internally as she swallowed painfully.

"I know," she eventually decided on. It wasn't enough, that much was clear on his face, but he let it go.

"Oi, love birds, quit making out and give us a hand!" Russell's rude shout prevented her from saying more even if she'd wanted to. The stocky built boy gave them a leering stare as if he had caught them in intimate acts, when in fact they were stood almost a foot apart, a heavy silence between them, carrying the weight of the dead boy that Wells had killed.

"Clarke, go see what's left in the Cornucopia will you?" Atom tacked on the end as he walked past her, clapping her on the shoulder in an act she supposed was meant to be comforting. All it did was make her frown, but she did as she was told anyway.

The Careers had begun their murdering spree as soon as the claxon sounded with the aim of gaining the Cornucopia as a safe camp and all the supplies it promised. Some of the tributes had fought back as they battled to reach the supplies first; some of them had even succeeded in their escape, carrying a knife or a blanket or an apple, but most had been cut down and left to bleed out on the earth. Clarke had seen it all around her and frozen.

She thought she had prepared herself for the horror the games would be, but every new dawn took another turn and left her breathless with fear no matter how much she had planned or pepped herself up. At least checking the Cornucopia would be an easy job, she didn't suppose the dried fruit was going to jump out at her with a knife.

Her allies had already grabbed most of the weapons and divided them up, they had done so as soon as the bloodbath was done and the bodies were picked up by hovercrafts until only smears of blood remained to show that they were ever there in the first place. That, along with the image of them burned onto Clarke's retinas.

Clarke had ended up with a collection of knives when the weapons were sorted; she had also claimed a small backpack which was still resting on her shoulders. She didn't want to take it off; that was her life in that bag, hers and Wells's life should they make the move to escape, break off from the Careers. It was something they had discussed before the arena, an idea that had formed before they were thrown into the nightmarish mess of the games, but it was something Clarke was stuck on. They would have to stay with the others a while of course, until they had figured out a plan, a way to break free. But Clarke already had some food, some water purification tablets, a coil of rope and a blanket stuffed into her backpack. At her hip was a smaller pack, filled with all the medicines she could find and two delicate syringes. They were decidedly unhelpful, as there was nothing to fill them with, but she took them anyway. Perhaps some Capitol sponsor would send her the medicine required if she or Wells fell ill.

She was glad Atom had given her the task of searching the Cornucopia once more; it would give her the chance to hoard anything useful before the others even knew it was there.

It was cold beneath the metal of the Cornucopia and dark, Clarke had to feel her way around crates and boxes with her fingertips. Outside, she could hear the others laughing, taunting one another as they set about building a fire. She hoped they weren't being too hard on Wells. Inside, there was only her breathing, soft and shallow, and the rasp of wood and metal as she moved things around.

There was decidedly less than she had hoped, the good stuff had already been taken, put to use or hidden in a bag or trouser leg. The majority of what was left was empty packaging, extra spearheads or arrows, or small pouches of food. They could be useful, Clarke was no hunter, she could tell if a berry was food or medicine or poison, but they would need meat to survive too. She scooped up the little packet and rearranged her backpack so that she could slip it inside without fully removing the bag from her body. The zip was fitting back into its lock when something caught her eye. _Was that...?_ Clarke stopped short, the sound of her rustling and breathing dissipating into silence. Only it wasn't silent.

Quick, rasping breaths filled the air and Clarke swallowed, releasing her own breath in a huff. Her heart began to pound as she struggled to see the shape through the half-darkness, but now she had seen it, she couldn't go back to pretending she hadn't.

Ahead of her, at the very end of the Cornucopia, there was a large box; the largest of them all, it had contained nets of fruit and vegetables when it was full, but the Careers had emptied it quick enough. They hadn't thought to move the box though, why would they? What should it matter how big it was, that it was big enough for someone to hide behind should they want? Who would be stupid enough to hide right in the middle of the Career's camp? Clarke gripped her knife, about to find out, for peeking past the corner of the box, almost invisible in the darkness, was a shoe.

She could still run to the others, call for help, turn back. But she didn't. _Whoever's hiding behind a box is no threat to me, _she thought, suddenly bold as she flexed her fingers around the knife, holding it out in front of her as she edged forward.

Her heart skipped as she approached, wondering which tribute was about to meet their end at her hands, or end her. It was possible they had a weapon of their own, but Clarke didn't deem it likely; the Careers had cleared out all the weapons and anyone who had swiped one beforehand would be long gone by now. It didn't calm the furious beat of her heart, though.

For a wild second, she wondered if it were Bellamy, District Twelve's angry male tribute, but she brushed it aside. He wouldn't have left his tiny counterpart, and they couldn't both fit behind there.

She was only steps away when the shoe pulled back an inch. She lunged forward, thrashing her knife arm out wildly. She wouldn't freeze this time, she couldn't.

The blade snagged on flesh as she tumbled forward and the tribute grunted in pain, throwing his arms up in front of his face. Clarke gripped his wrist with her free hand, dragging it sharply downward, and holding the knife close to his face.

It was the boy from Three, his mouth twisted and dark eyes shining with fear. Clarke was so close she could feel his breath on her cheeks, see the blood beading on his thigh where she had cut through cloth and skin.

"Please," The boy whispered, and Clarke flinched, twisting the fingers that held his arm. "Do it quickly then. I don't want them to see anything bad," For a moment, Clarke thought he meant the other Careers, but pain stabbed at her chest when she realised the boy wasn't referring to anyone in the arena, but rather the people watching the screens, any family he might have back home. He didn't want them to see him face a gory death.

Her breathing came hard and fast and she could feel her eyes widening. She wondered if she looked insane – she felt it. The knife trembled in her fist and the boy risked dragging his eyes from hers to look at the weapon.

"Clarke," The Adam's apple in his throat bobbed and Clarke's breath caught in her throat.

"You know my name?" She pulled the knife back a centimetre, her grip relaxing. _Don't, don't, keep your guard up. _But the boy wouldn't hurt her, she was sure of that. Almost sure.

"I know all their names," He replied slowly. She could almost see the cogs working in his mind as he wondered how to buy himself more time, an escape. His eyes flickered back and forth across her face, as dark and shiny as his hair as he licked his lips lightly.

"I don't know yours," Clarke confessed out loud, she didn't know why. She should kill him, no need to converse with the boy, _kill him, kill him!_ But she couldn't, she knew it, the boy knew it. She could see the fear leaving his eyes at the realisation. She wasn't one of them, a career, not really.

"It's Monty," He licked his lips again, a nervous habit, Clarke thought, as she bit at her own. "Are you going to kill me now, Clarke?" He was teasing her, but his voice shook lightly, a reminder that he wasn't quite safe.

Clarke pushed the knife against his skin lightly, but her throat tightened at the movement. She didn't have to kill him, did she? She could use him; he was from District Three, where they dealt with electronics and technology. He must be smart. Three was better than two, wasn't it? Her mind was hurriedly making up images of adding Monty to her alliance when she and Wells left the Careers. He could help them, they could help each other.

He couldn't have been older than her, maybe even a year younger. Monty. He had a name, he was a person, he had a family; a life. A life that she couldn't take away. _I'm weak,_ Clarke knew, _I'm weak, and it will get me killed._ But she lowered her knife arm anyway.

"Are you going to attack me if I let you go?" She asked. Monty shook his head and Clarke nodded, moving away. "I'll distract them," She lowered her voice to a murmur, "You'll have to run for it, okay?" Monty nodded his assent.

Clarke stood, tucking the knife into her waistband.

"Clarke?" A female voice drew Clarke's head up sharply. Standing a few foot away, net clasped in one hand and spear in the other, with her eyes narrowed and lips pursed, was Anna. "Clarke... who's that?"

* * *

"No you can't!" Clarke struggled against the thick arms that held her back as she yelled. "He hasn't done anything; let him go, _let him go!_" Her voice was hoarse from shouting, but it did no use. Illuminated by the glow of the fire, a grim scene was panning out before her.

The Careers were huddled around the fire, variant expressions on their faces as Monty knelt before them. Anna stood with a sneer playing at her thin lips the other side of the flames as June shoved Monty in the back, so hard that he toppled forward, his face meeting the earth. They had tied his hands behind his back so he couldn't even stop his fall. Atom was biting the inside of his cheek, but did nothing. Russell was a hulking shadow with eyes that glinted in the firelight, like the blade he swung back and forth, so lazily it might have been a toy. Wells's face was hidden from her, for his arms were locked around her waist, holding her back. And she hated him for it.

When Anna had come across Clarke and Monty in the Cornucopia she had screamed, high pitched and loud until the others had come running, and dragged Monty outside, Clarke running behind. June had even gone so far as to congratulate Clarke on her find, her snubbed nose wrinkling when she smiled. But that was short lived, once the Careers discovered what Clarke's real intentions were, June's face had turned to a snarl.

At first Wells had defended Monty too.

"Let him go, he's no threat, he's not going to come back," He had said, but his reason was cut through by cries for the boy's blood. Now, his arms tightened around Clarke's middle and his lips pressed against her ear.

"Clarke, you can't save everyone. You'll get us killed," His thumb brushed against her arm in a quiet affection as Clarke stopped her thrashing. "I can't lose you," She felt him swallow; "I'm sorry," Clarke gritted her teeth to prevent a sob from spilling out.

"Please," She bleated, as she looked between her allies and the boy on the floor, struggling to get up, to die with dignity. "You don't have to do this,"

"Yes we do, Princess," Russell grinned at her and Clarke tasted bile. He wasn't the first to use that name. _Princess, it's a term of endearment_, a man's voice filled her mind, _can't you feel the love between us?_ Clarke's body began to tremble. He couldn't use that name, not him, not like this. _Murderer_, she wanted to scream. But they would all be murderers by the end. The boy clutching her was a murderer, sweet, kind, brave Wells. A killer. She loved a killer. Her best friend was a killer.

_It's different,_ she argued with her thoughts, _he was protecting me, this is different._

In front of her, Monty had struggled to his knees once more, meeting her eyes through the dancing flames. They were dark and unreadable, but to Clarke, they screamed hatred. _You did this, _they said, _you did this_. And she believed them.

"Don't look," Wells's deep voice warned her as he turned her body easily and Clarke's face fitted into the groove of his neck, the way it had always done when she was sad or afraid.

"Any last words, Three?" Russell's voice taunted and the girls laughed in mockery.

Monty said something that Clarke couldn't hear, but she could hear the next sound as clear as anything. She'd be hearing it the rest of her life. The swoosh of a blade and the thud that followed it as something hit the ground.

Wells's body convulsed and he tightened his grip on her.

"Don't look, don't look. Come on," He began pulling her away. "Don't look," But she couldn't help it, she had to, had to.

The view was marred by strands of golden hair and crimson flames, but there was no mistaking the sight; the boy's body was slumped on the ground staining the earth, as blood gushed from a wound where his head used to be.

* * *

The corner of a crate dug into Clarke's back, the pain between her shoulder blades intended to keep her awake. She didn't need it; she didn't think she would ever be able to sleep again. Her eyes stung with tears that wouldn't fall and her lip was bitten raw. It would be her fingernails next.

It had been easy for her to take the first watch; sleep would never find her in this state. It wasn't easy taking the watch with Atom who sat stiffly by her side, picking at calluses on his hands. _You stood by and watched,_ Clarke wanted to growl_, you're as evil as they are_. Monty's body was long gone, carried away by hovercraft, but Clarke could still see it. Her eyes kept being drawn back to the spot where it had lain and the others that lay sleeping around it.

"I'm sorry about your friend," Atom finally spoke, his voice breaking in the middle. Clarke looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"He wasn't my friend," She sighed, pushing her hair back from her face as she thought about Monty's family mourning him. Did they appreciate her efforts to save him? Or did they hate her for standing by when it counted? They were selfish thoughts. Clarke certainly felt selfish. She wanted to scream and run and burst into tears at the boy's death. But it was all wrong; she should cry for his family who have to carry on without him, she should cry because he lost his chance at life. But that wasn't the reason. Clarke wanted to cry because something terrible had happened and she had seen it, and the thought had her frowning at her lap. "I didn't even know his name until today,"

"Oh," Was all Atom said in reply. There was a long silence that could've been minutes or several hours, Clarke didn't know. She watched the bodies of the others rise and fall in their sleep. Anna tossed and turned and whimpered into her blanket. _Good_, Clarke thought icily, she hoped the girl was dreaming of Monty, of what had happened to him, what she had let happen. Atom frowned as he watched his district partner thrash in her nightmares, but he did nothing.

"Did you know her before?" Clarke said softly, as the pair watched the girl.

"No," Atom's voice was like a stone through the quiet, "I didn't." Clarke wondered if he would cry when Anna was dead, and what the reason would be. Did he care for the girl? Or was she just a comfort? Just a little piece of home?

"They don't trust you, you know. Especially not now, not after you defended the boy," Atom spoke quietly, turning to look at her, his usually grinning face turned grey and serious. He seemed to have aged ten years in a day.

"He didn't deserve to die," Clarke retorted.

"None of us do," Atom picked up a stick and began twirling it in his fingers. "But here we are," Clarke looked at the hulking forms of District Two's tributes, of Anna curled up in a ball, and didn't agree. _They're just children, all of us are_, a compassionate girl within her spoke, _they're doing what they have to do to survive, just like you. _But it was hard to see that with the picture of Monty's body still burning her eyes.

"Here we are," She agreed drearily. She looked at Wells, lying at her feet. His face was young in sleep, innocent. _He's killed today_, Clarke knew, and yet she couldn't hate him for it. Because as she watched him lying there, his shoulders rising and falling with gentle breaths and his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he dreamt, she knew why. Clarke wasn't a killer, she wasn't even a career, but the people you are, and the people you need to be to survive are not always the same and even good people can do bad things.

And Clarke knew then, that if one of her '_allies_' or anyone else turned on sweet, kind, brave Wells. _Her Wells._ She wouldn't hesitate to save him.

_We need to get away from here, Wells._ Clarke sighed at his sleeping form. _We need to get away soon, but how?_

* * *

**A/N *evil laughter* Sorry this story is turning out to be so sad, but really, with a Hunger Games AU, it's bound to be. Thanks so much for all your support, it's so lovely to hear your comments. I hope you liked this chapter! - J x**


	12. Chapter 12

"_Bellamy!" Octavia squealed with laughter as Bellamy's fingers tickled her sides. Her cheeks were pink and her hair was a mess in its ribbon. Bellamy grinned. The girl was frowning at him, but she couldn't keep her pout for more than a second before her lips were stretching into a smile again. Octavia had an excellent temper, but she was a terrible liar. Her pouts could tear down the resolve of stronger men, but when she was happy, her smile crept onto her face no matter how hard she tried to prevent it._

_Bellamy leant forward and kissed her on the forehead where a few freckles were beginning to appear from days spent in the sun._

"_Bell, C'mon, get up!" Bellamy frowned – that was wrong. Octavia's upturned face was breathless with laughter, and her lips moved with a smile, but the voice... "Bellamy, please, get up!" The voice was wrong, agitated and frightened. And it wasn't Octavia; it was too squeaky, too shy. _

_Something hard hit Bellamy's side and Octavia blinked at him, her lashes brushing her cheeks as she did so._

"_Wake up, Bell," She smiled. "Just wake up,"_

* * *

Bellamy opened his eyes. _No_. His heart screamed in his chest for the dream that he had lost. It was real, it had felt so real.

"Bellamy!" Inches from his face, Charlotte's wide eyes flooded with relief. Bellamy sat up sharply, almost knocking the little girl backwards, but his hand flew out to grab her arm, keeping her steady. The other found his hip, reaching for a knife he knew he had fastened there. There was fear in those doe brown eyes, and Bellamy was ready to face the threat.

"What is it?" His voice was husky with sleep as he moved to his feet, automatically pushing Charlotte behind his body as his eyes searched hurriedly for a foe. He cursed himself, he should've woken quicker, should've been awake, should've heard her calling.

"Can't fight," Charlotte squeaked as she tugged at the back of his jacket. "Got to run,"

"I don't underst-" He began, but then he saw it. Mere metres away, moving much too fast to be natural was a rolling cloud of mist. "What the...?" Bellamy's eyes narrowed at the approaching fog, silver with a mauve tint to the tendrils that stretched out ahead of the main body, curling around branches and leaves like long, deadly fingers. He wasn't sure what it was, but he was sure as hell that he didn't want to be caught in it.

"Let's not find out," Charlotte gripped his hand with clammy fingers and Bellamy dragged his eyes away from the mist. He couldn't agree more.

It was a shock to the system, waking from such a pleasant dream into such a nightmare; being forced to push your body to its limits whilst your mind is screaming fear mere seconds after you wake, but everything Bellamy had experienced in the last week had been a shocking whirlwind of terror. It was enough to make a person sick, to make them drop to the floor with exhaustion, pain and fear. But Bellamy could do neither, he didn't have time. It hadn't taken him long to learn that in the Hunger Games, if you stay still, you die.

So his feet smacked into the ground hard as he ran and his lungs burnt as they pushed air in and out, in and out. His legs wanted to give way, but every time he looked over his shoulder, the mist was creeping behind, slithering over the forest floor and filling his nostrils with a cloy smell that burnt his skin on the way in and set fire to his throat on the way out. _It's catching up_, he thought with horror, _it's too fast_.

He looked up to the girl in front of him as she hurried over roots and ditches and rustling leaves. He was faster than her, but he had slowed his pace so as to be behind her. But it was too slow. He turned his head and saw nothing but dense cloud. _It's choking me_, he thought as the fog crept into his mouth and ears and nose, it sent tears springing to his eyes and made his legs jerk weakly. _Choking and burning._

"Charlotte," He panted, his tongue turning numb between his lips, "Hold your..." His eyebrows furrowed and his run slowed to a walk as his head grew heavy. He couldn't remember...couldn't remember what he had meant to say...The world was spinning and his brain slowing but his skin – his skin was on _fire_.

"Bellamy!" Her voice sounded much farther away than she was, too faint. "Keep running!" Bellamy tried, he took a step but he felt as if his muscles had burst into flames. His limbs screamed out to him for attention, but his mind was too slow to do anything but feel the pain. _A clever poison_, he realised, whatever it did to his skin, his thoughts were too jumbled to do anything about it. He almost laughed, but that would've let the mist in.

He wondered how they did it, how the two components worked together to create such a potent mix of pain and sluggishness. _She'd know, the Princess, she could fix my legs with her fancy plants..._

"Bellamy!" Charlotte screamed again, but this time her voice was close to his ear, her tiny hand yanking at his. "Run, run!" She pulled at his arm, "It's killing you, you have to run!" Her voice turned from words to sobs and Bellamy blinked. _Think, think_. But it was so hard...it was burning, or, perhaps he was still asleep? Perhaps...He screwed his lids shut tight and opened them again, ignoring the sting.

"Charlotte!" He gasped. The little girl stood before him, tears upon her face and her arms marked with great red welts. _No_. The sight of her pain sparked something inside of Bellamy, instinct to nurture, or thoughts of Octavia or the pain that was ripping through his heart which had nothing to do with his own condition. "Charlotte," He repeated dumbly. "Let's go," The fog that surrounded them was a thin haze, but behind them the cloud was denser, it would choke them if they stayed still.

He wasn't sure how, but he pushed his legs forward step by step, his fingers tight round Charlotte's wrist. It wasn't the sprint he had begun with, but it felt a million times harder. Bellamy grunted with the exertion of movement and the struggle to breathe clean air. It could've been mere moments, or several days but eventually Bellamy began to taste forest air on his tongue and feel his brain begin to work again. The fog still wrapped his deathly arms around his legs and arms and waist but he was outrunning it. He felt his heart swell with relief, they were outrunning it!

And then a root sprang up in front of them and Charlotte was sent sprawling to the ground. Bellamy thought perhaps she was weeping, but then he realised with a jolt that she was making no sounds at all.

His heart thudded wildly in his ribcage as his head whipped around, the fog was so close, his legs burnt and his brain was telling him to run while he could, run, run, run, determined not to succumb once more to the haze. But he couldn't leave her; there was no reality in which Bellamy Blake could ever leave her behind. So with a tremendous effort, he bent to the ground, hoisted the girl over his shoulder and pushed onward, his desire for clean air propelling him forward along with the resounding voice in his head. "_You're the bravest person I know_." _Just two more steps,_ he told himself, _"You're strong and fast and brave." I promise, O, I promise, I promise_. He wanted to touch his ribbon but his arms were wrapped around Charlotte's limp frame, reminding him what was important. _Get her safe, Bell, get her safe and then you can think about O. Just do this first. Just breathe. Just be safe._ But there was no safety in the arena, was there?

The air was getting more breathable, but there was a downside to that, with each breath he took, his head became clearer, and with that his body became more painful, and his mind became panicked for the girl slung across his back; panicked she wouldn't make it, panicked he couldn't retain his pace, or that the fog would speed up and swallow them both.

There had been no canon though, and he could feel her breaths in the way her chest expanded against his shoulder. _She's okay_, he had to keep her that way. Or he might as well run into the mist and lay down himself.

It was then that he saw it, the chance he had been waiting for, a dark cave mouth where he could slip in and hide until the fog had passed. There was a chance that the fog might slither in with them and kill them all the same, but it was a chance he would have to take. He couldn't outrun it forever, not with Charlotte in his arms. The girl weighed hardly anything, but Bellamy's body was too full of poison to bear much extra weight, he could barely carry himself, let alone another person.

He started toward the cave and all but toppled down the slope into it. He grunted and Charlotte moaned as Bellamy's body collided with the rocky floor and he dropped her unceremoniously.

"Charlotte," He spoke hoarsely, crawling to her form on hands and knees. It was dark in the cave, hard to see, but Bellamy could see that her eyes were opened a crack and watched as she raised a hand to her face to touch her cracked lips. The sight of it made him realise how dry his own mouth was.

"Water," she gasped and Bellamy smiled despite himself, despite how much it hurt to move his lips. _She's okay_. "Please," She repeated, struggling to sit up.

"No, no," Bellamy hushed her, "I'll do it," He gently propped her against the cave wall, removing his pack from her shoulders where she must have put it before waking him. He withdrew the bottle from its depths and held it to her quivering lips.

Bellamy grimaced, there was less than a litre left, they would have to make water their first priority as soon as they could move, but he let her drink and took a swig for himself before replacing the bottle cap with trembling hands.

He sighed, collapsing against the other wall, the cave was small, too small to stand; probably an animal hole and yet no creature was in sight. Bellamy wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep but he knew enough about illness to know that wasn't a good idea. If he fell asleep, he might never wake again, and then how would Charlotte survive? He watched her through the gloom; she looked so young, curled in on herself with small breaths and a pale face that shone through the dark. Her exposed skin was littered with red sores and Bellamy held up his hands to find that his mimicked them. He risked a prod at one only to recoil back in pain.

He thought once more of the District One girl. _Clarke_. The Princess_. _She'd know how to fix them, she could heal them. He leant his head against the stone and exhaled, wondering where she was and imagining how different their circumstances might be if she were with them.

It seemed years ago that he had scorned her in the training centre. Perhaps if he had been kinder she would've shared her skills with him and he could soothe his and Charlotte's irritated skin. But he had mocked her and driven her away and now she was far away in a band of killers, and he was stuck in a cave, brought down by fog. _What a way to go_, a bitter voice in his mind sneered.

"Bellamy," A different voice said softly and Bellamy opened his eyes to meet Charlotte's. He hadn't even realised he had closed them. "We're going to be okay, aren't we?" The girl winced as she spoke and Bellamy's chest ached.

"Yeah," He gave his best impression of a smile, "We are," He wanted to believe it, he wanted to believe it very much.

* * *

They stayed in the cave all day, too frightened to emerge in case the fog was still lurking, so they sat in half-darkness, nibbling on tiny chunks of fruit and taking sips of water, barely moving in fear of upsetting their wounds.

But when their water bottle finally ran dry, Bellamy knew it was time to leave. They weren't going to get any better sitting there.

Charlotte had slipped into sleep a few times and he had told her stories, stories he had once told Octavia in their little house in District Twelve. He had clutched his ribbon, caked with dirt and sweat and swallowed sadness. He had thought of his sister and his mother, what did they think of his predicament? Did they cry to see him wounded? Or were they proud that he was still fighting? Was O jealous of the way he treated Charlotte, did she think she was being replaced? He thought of the coal mines and how they were darker than the cave. He thought of Twelve's forests and how frightening they had once seemed. _They would be a walk in the park compared to this one_, he thought wryly.

He thought of the other tributes, the ones he pitied, the ones that frightened him, the ones whose faces he couldn't quite remember...He prayed to any Gods there might be that someone in the Capitol would send him some medicine for their ruined skin and he tried not to think about how thirsty he was.

There was no denying it any longer. Their flesh was painful and difficult to move, but if they didn't leave this cave now, they never would. There must be a stream somewhere; the Games would be considered terribly boring if they all died of thirst. So he and Charlotte collected what remained of their supplies, bit their cheeks as their limbs protested movement, and headed back into the open.

Bellamy's jaw dropped. In the time they had been inside the cave, the forest had grown dark, only it wasn't. For perched on leaves and branches or hovering before his face, were pockets of a strange blue light. Beside him Charlotte gasped audibly, a far cry from the sounds of pain she had been making all day, this was a sound of awe. And Bellamy couldn't blame her. He had never seen something so absurdly beautiful.

A light drifted close by him, making him blink in shock when he realised the lights were alive, and not lights at all, but insects. Huge butterflies, with wings that spanned his palm and glowed bright blue.

Charlotte's eyes were wide with wonder and reflected the glow as she reached out her hand to touch one of the butterflies.

"Charlotte, don't, they could be poisonous," Bellamy warned, wary of anything new, but the insect had already landed on her fingers, making the child giggle with delight.

"_Oh_," She crooned, "They're so lovely," Bellamy looked up, the boughs of the trees were full of clusters of the things and she was right; they were fascinating, they were beautiful. His hand trembled as one of them came to land on his arm, making his hairs stand up in anticipation, but all that he felt was a faint tickle of the creature's legs on his skin, oddly soothing. It fluttered its wings lazily, the light shining through the membrane and casting the colour onto him. He smiled, his heart swelling and happiness rushing through him. It was such a small thing, so insignificant, but it made him happy to know that even in the arena, there was something beautiful. He wished his sister could see it, as the insect's legs touched the ribbon on his wrist and filled him with a sense of calm.

The wounds on his hands looked less ugly in the butterflies' glow and when he looked at Charlotte, the girl was so happy that he couldn't help but mimic her grin. _There is beauty in everything if you look for it_, his mother had once told him, _and there is always something worth living for._

* * *

**A/N Writing dramatic/action scenes is something I find quite difficult, I prefer writing the internal struggles and thoughts so you're getting a lot of that in this story. I hope that you're into that, and that you liked this chapter! I decided to put in a happy ending (ish) for once!**

**A lot of people are asking me about when we will see Bellarke interaction and I promise that this _is_ a Bellarke story, but it is mainly focusing on their thoughts and feelings and the struggles of their situation so it will be a slow build rather than an instant romantic relationship. Remember, they only met a week ago! But you have all been so patient and I can tell you that they will meet up in the next Bellamy chapter ;)**

**On a side note, the 100 season 2 has not aired yet where I live so please don't post any spoilers! Thank you as always for all your lovely reviews and I hope you continue to enjoy the story :) - J x**


	13. Chapter 13

The dry branches cracked as the flames licked at them, sending plumes of grey smoke into a grey sky as a rabbit turned black on a spit. Clarke's stomach growled, despite the fact that the rabbit looked entirely inedible. She had her rations in her backpack, but she didn't want to break into them until her and Wells were far away from the other Careers.

Atom had caught the rabbit on the way back to camp an hour previous and Russell had made a show of skinning it and cooking it, singing praises and flattering himself on preparing a meal for them, though the rabbit wouldn't feed more than two of them and was too burnt and badly butchered to be of much use anyway.

Clarke rested her chin in her hand and avoided looking at the poor excuse for breakfast. The creature had suffered a slow death, the knife point had missed its heart and left it choking for several minutes before Russell finally broke its neck and put it out of its misery. The brutal affair only reminded Clarke of the people who had met their ends at the Career's hands. It was hard not to think of it when they wouldn't stop talking about it, bragging about it, as if it were an accomplishment. She swallowed bile, and suddenly felt less hungry.

"Did you see her face? I think she wet herself when she saw us coming!" Russell poked the rabbit with a stick as he recounted the story for the hundredth time. On the second night of the Games, the Careers had begun their hunt, their efforts to pick off stray tributes. The night had resolved in only one death, far less bloodshed than they had hoped for, and so they had made the point of retelling it countless times.

"She was all 'don't kill me!'" June made a cruel imitation of the girl's screams for mercy, followed by a guttural laugh. Clarke picked at her fingernails, remembering the girl's cries. She was a young one, only about fourteen. _Dead now_.

When the tributes from Two began to do a re-enactment of the girl's death Clarke stood up sharply, wiping her palms on her trousers.

"Excuse me," She coughed lightly and turned away, not sure where she was going, but desperate to get away from the campfire.

"Awh come on Clarke, lighten up!" Someone called.

"Stupid bitch," Muttered another.

Wells's fingertips grazed her jacket sleeve as she walked by him, but she pushed them aside. She just needed to be alone for a moment. Besides, the others would be on them in a moment if they thought she and Wells were trying to break off.

"I'll be fine, I just need to, uh," Clarke offered him a smile, but her muscles were too sore, too tense, and it felt more of a grimace, "Relieve myself," She tacked on the end, in an effort to comfort him. She watched the swallow as it passed through his throat, watched as his eyes remained scared and alert. He didn't believe her; he saw right through her, he always did. But he let her go.

She didn't go far, just into the tree line. It was far enough that the others couldn't see her, and their cruel jokes couldn't reach her ears, but close enough that should she scream for help, they would hear.

Clarke sighed as she leant against the trunk of a tree, running her hand across the bark, enjoying the rough texture against her skin. Her skin had never been soft, she had a doctor's hands, calloused and rough and sure when she worked, but her time in the arena had worn away the rough skin that had protected them, and left her palms pink and stinging. There were grazes on them from twigs that leapt back and caught her as she passed through the trees, and patches of tattered skin where she had fallen and connected with the hard ground. Her calluses were in all the wrong places, formed from holding syringes, or even a paintbrush when she had the time, formed from hard scrubbings and climbing trees as a child. The parts of her hands used for holding her knife were weak and tender, and they were crying out at her, protesting the hardships that they weren't used to. Clarke supposed she should be glad that was all the injuries she had. There were scratches on her arms and face too, bruises on her legs, but that was nothing.

She gazed out into the gloom of the forest, there was a whole medicine cabinet in there if she could identify it, she was sure. The scientist in her was itching for a chance to try out some of the natural medicines she could find, the artist marvelling at all the colours, the way the light danced through the leaves, but the rational part of her knew that needing medical attention was not a good thing. She also knew with a certainty that she would need to use her skills before her time in the games was done. She just hoped it was within her skill to fix any injuries she or Wells may encounter.

But that only brought her back to the seemingly unsolvable question, the question that was driving her mad; how _are we going to get away?_ A ruthless girl whispered to her at night _kill them, kill them all._ It would certainly prevent them from coming after them, and it would increase her chance of getting home, the Careers were after all, the biggest threat. And God knew they deserved it. Clarke thought of Monty and the girl from Five; the way her allies had _laughed_ as they died, and sucked in breath hard as she fought to control her anger.

There was no way she could kill them though, not all of them, not even with Wells by her side. They were too strong, too dangerous. Clarke bit down on her fist and screamed. _There has to be a way! _She slid down the trunk of the tree, rubbing her temples as she tried to think.

It was a perfect hiding place here between two bushes; they were tall and wide enough to obscure her whole body when she crouched like this. She wondered what it would be like to stay there, stay there and sleep, and pretend the games were all a bad dream. She couldn't do that, but she could sit for a moment longer, couldn't she?

Clarke let her fingers drift out to stroke the leaves of the bushes, wide and flat and dark green, they felt waxy against her skin on one side, and downy on the other. In amongst the leaves were clusters of round, purple-red berries. They glistened slightly, bursting with juice and Clarke reached out tentatively, to pluck one from its stem. She rolled it between the pads of her forefinger and thumb and clapped a hand over her mouth to hide the smile.

She _knew_ these berries! They grew in clusters in District One; her mother had often sent her to retrieve them when a patient was in too much pain. Clarke tried to ignore the stab in her stomach at the thought of her mother; she hadn't thought of her since the games started, and a part of her felt guilty for it. The rest of her was glad; life in the arena was hard enough without that added pain.

She lifted the berry to her mouth and tentatively nibbled at it, tearing the purple skin away to reveal pale green flesh and an abundance of juice that splashed across her tongue making her gag. She dropped the berry and spit into the dirt. The juice was sweet to the taste, but it was the association that made her gag. The berries could be used to make a patient sleepy, or numb pain during treatment, but too many could weaken the nerve system, send a person into a deep sleep, or make it hard for them to move.

Clarke dropped the spoiled berry on the ground, crushing it with her boot and began picking the bush clean. A smile formed on her face as an idea formed in her mind.

* * *

She made a show of stashing the berries into her bag as she approached the group, letting her eyes widen and her teeth find their worry spot on her bottom lip as Anna stared her down.

"What you got there Clarke?" The girl pursed thin lips and Clarke bristled at how _mean_ she looked. She had all the features to make her a pretty girl, green eyes and shining red hair and that slender figure girls the world over were desperate for, but the look that was constantly planted on her face turned her from beautiful to cruel. Clarke swallowed as she advanced, holding the pack close to her chest. It was a risky plan at best, but it was all she had.

"Nothing," She moved to swing the back pack over her shoulder, but Anna lunged forward, taking the bait and pulling the bag from Clarke's feeble grip.

"She's been hoarding food!" Anna gasped as her hands thrust like claws into Clarke's meagre rations. Clarke had removed most of the things she had really hoarded, medicine and most of the food, stuffing it down in her socks, or bra or up her sleeves. All that was left in the pack was the things she wanted them to see.

"What?" June stood up and advanced toward the other girls, her great frame looming over the both of them.

"Hey now," Wells's voice cut in as he pushed to reach Clarke. "Let's not do anything irrational, I'm sure there's an explanation for all of this," _Ever the Diplomat_, Clarke thought wryly.

"And what are these?" Anna held out the berries in her palm before bringing them close to her face and sniffing them suspiciously. They would smell sweet and perfectly edible, Clarke knew, but she worried they might see through her charade none the less.

"Nothing, I mean, I was hungry. I knew there wouldn't be enough rabbit for all of us, so I just wanted to..." Clarke let her words trail off with a swallow.

"We share out rations, Clarke, remember?" Atom added his voice to the argument, his brows furrowing as he looked at her.

The Careers were stood around her, Wells had his hand on her shoulder, Anna had the pack dangling from her wrist, and the other's loomed.

"I say we just kill the bitch now!" Clarke's head snapped round at that, at the pure hatred in Anna's words.

"Not a chance, we need her," That voice came as a surprise too, as Russell rushed to her defence. "Are any of you doctors? Think we stand a chance if something turns out to be poisonous?"

"We're allies!" Wells cried out, his fingertips digging into Clarke painfully as he pulled her slightly behind him. "We need to be hunting the other tributes, not fighting amongst ourselves!" Clarke was beginning to believe her plan wasn't so good after all, Careers always ended up offing each other. It didn't normally happen so soon into the games, but it always did. _Damn it!_ She cursed herself internally as she gnawed on her lip, this time with a genuine anxiety. _Why didn't I see that this would happen?_ Her legs were screaming at her to run, adrenaline pumping through her veins with every heartbeat and her thoughts whirred in a panic.

"Her and her boyfriend are just gonna screw us over! Kill them!" Anna's voice rose to a screech and she dropped the bag to the ground with a thud, ripping a knife from her belt. Clarke's heart beat wildly in her chest and Wells stepped in front of her.

"Hey!" Atom pushed his district partner back with his hands firmly against her shoulders. "Wells is right, we need them as allies. And Clarke is a healer, the only one we've got. Do you think the Capitol is just going to rain fancy medical supplies down on us if we get hurt? Cause I don't!" He pushed her again, and the girl's face turned red.

"You want to save her because she's pretty is that it? Because you had a little flirt in training? She wants to kill you Atom; she wants to kill all of us!"

"And I'll want to kill you if you don't stop your screeching," Russell growled.

Clarke's breathing was as rapid as her heart rate, her mouth tasted of metal and her muscles tensed to run.

"We need to leave Wells," Her voice was a panicked rasp against his ear and she felt him nod ever so slightly.

"Now?" The word was no more than a whisper. Clarke wanted to vomit. There was no way they could beat them in a fight, but could they outrun them? They were both fast; she and Wells had used to run races as children, not tiring for a long time. But there were four of them. _They'll catch us_, a part of her screamed. _You're wasting time,_ yelled another.

Before them, Russell pulled back a great fist and hit the District Four girl around the head so hard that she crumpled like a doll. Atom yanked his spear out in front of him in retaliation, and June rushed to her partner's side. Clarke glanced between the three angry faces, and the pale girl on the floor. Now was as good a time as any, _while they're distracted_. _Before they turn on you_.

"Yes, now," Clarke's hand found Wells's and tugged sharply and together, they turned and ran as grunts of pain and clashes of metal sounded behind them.

Clarke's feet hit the ground hard, over and over as she sprinted for the trees, away from the careers and the people who wanted her dead, away, away, away. Her lungs screamed for air and her muscles ached with the exertion but Wells's hand was still in hers, gripping tight and telling her to run, run, run.

"They're getting away!" Someone yelled, but it sounded soft compared to the wind rushing past Clarke's ear and the frightened thud of her heart.

"Don't look back," Wells panted, squeezing her hand and urging them forward into a faster sprint. _Don't look back_. The words rang in her head as she ran, and for once, she listened.

* * *

By the time they stopped running, they were both exhausted. It felt like they'd been going for hours, and Clarke's legs were too tired to run anymore. At one point they had given way from beneath her and she had tumbled down a slope into a ditch.

"Clarke!" Wells's cry had been hoarse with his lack of breath as he struggled to reach her and pull her to her feet. She didn't even answer, just pulled him along, running, running, ever running.

Now they were deep in the forest and it must have been well past noon. Clarke leant forward, resting her hands on her knees as she spat the taste of metal from her mouth and panted.

"Think this is far enough?" Wells rested one hand on her shoulder, the other brushing her hair behind her ear. It was a tender gesture, and one that almost reduced Clarke to tears. She caught his hand and held it between hers, placing her fingers in the gaps between his and straightening up to look him in the eyes. Eyes so dark she could see her reflection in them, her face was pale and haggard in their surface, so weak she couldn't stand it. She looked away.

"Just have to wait and find out," She hid her face in her free hand. "I'm so sorry, Wells. My plan...it was so stupid, I-"

"Hey," Wells's fingers prised her hand from her face so gently that a sob formed in Clarke's throat, and tears stung her eyes threatening to spill out. "We needed to get away from them, and we did," The boy took both of Clarke's hands in his own and squeezed as he smiled. But it was a sad smile, not happiness, but reassurance. It was a smile for Clarke, not for himself. She was grateful, but it only made the tears leak through her lashes, and run down her cheeks to know how much he did for her, the brave front he put up.

"I'm so frightened Wells," The admission could barely pass her lips, it could get her killed, if people thought she was weak, an easy target. But it was true, painfully so, and all Clarke wanted to do was break down.

"I know," He pulled her close to his chest, kissing the top of her matted, dirty hair. It had only been a few days since she'd washed it, but she had fallen over so many times that it was all one big horrible knot. It was the least of her worries. "Its okay, Clarke." Wells crooned, politely ignoring the tear stains she was leaving on his shirt. "I'm here for you; I'll always be here,"

* * *

Clarke let Wells take the first watch that night, he insisted and she was too exhausted to argue and curling up beside him had felt _so_ nice, that she couldn't bring herself to refuse the chance. He had seemed regretful to wake her, for when he shook her shoulder lightly, his eyes were full of sadness and affection so deep it made her feel raw and exposed.

She could've kissed him then. But that would've been selfish. Because what she wanted wasn't the romantic, loving kiss she could tell he craved, she just wanted to _feel _something. Something that wasn't hurt or sadness. Instead, she had just smiled lightly at him, propping herself up to watch in the dark, whilst Wells leant against her shoulder to sleep.

She had been filled with terror all the hours between dark and dawn, waiting for a Career to jump out from behind a tree; for Russell with his fists as big as her head, or Anna with her cold eyes and boiling rage. But all she saw was another rabbit as it snuffled its way through the undergrowth. Clarke was sad to kill it, but it was meat that could keep them alive.

She roused Wells when dawn broke, with the smell of meat on the fire and a tired smile. She let the meat cook for a while, to be sure it was done all the way through, but her cooking was significantly better than Russell's attempts. She wondered what the Careers were doing, who was left. She hadn't heard a canon, but perhaps one of them was in the process of slowly dying. _A girl can hope,_ she chuckled darkly. It wasn't the sort of thing seventeen year old girls should be laughing about, but she couldn't bring herself to care. The games had warped her sense of right and wrong, all that was left was fear and a stubborn determination to stay alive. The Careers were the biggest threat to her and Wells's safety; the sooner they were gone, the better.

As soon as they had eaten, they left. There was no end goal, nowhere to go, only away from the Careers. As they walked through the forest, Clarke took a moment to escape her horror, and enjoy the beauty of the forest; the vibrancy of the colours, the rich browns of the trees and the earth and the greens which made her feel so alive. Tiny flowers sprouted up at the bases of tree trunks and colourful birds flitted through the leafy canopy singing in chirps as they went. Clarke saw squirrels too, with their bushy tails quivering as they scurried across her path or up branches. She even saw a butterfly with wings that were as large as her hand and translucent, revealing the leaf it was sitting on through the thin membrane.

If she had to guess, she would've said the creature was nocturnal, and hadn't returned to its home despite the dawn, for it crawled across the leaf in a daze, its antennas moving lazily.

"Hey, Wells," Clarke smiled at the creature, fascinated by its unusual beauty, "Come look at this," Wells had been following behind her, as Clarke rushed ahead, worry forgotten, excited by the picturesque landscape that surrounded her, that she was dying to paint. She had heard his soft hums of agreement, or his light curses as he tripped on a branch, reminding her he was there, but her remark was greeted with nothing but a low groan.

"Wells?" Clarke straightened from her crouch and spun round, fear returning to her in a great swooping rush that threatened to knock her feet out from under her.

Wells stood a few metres from her, his eyes wide and shining, his dark skin turning pale. Clarke's eyes widened and her lips parted in a scream that she never meant to unleash as her gaze turned to his stomach, and the spear head that protruded from it.

"_Clarke_," Wells replied; the word spilling from his mouth in a terrible gurgle as he coughed dark blood past his lips. _Clarke, Clarke, Clarke_. The name was drowned in her scream and the horrible pounding of her heart. It was the last word he ever spoke and Clarke's world came crashing down around her, falling like Wells's blood as it dripped onto the floor.


	14. Chapter 14

_Octavia's dark hair shone blue and her smile showed all her teeth as she stood with arms outstretched, alight with the insect's coloured wings. It was the most beautiful sight Bellamy had ever seen; his sister, happy._

"_Oh, Bell, it's wonderful!" The girl giggled, spinning in circles, her hair fanning out around her and the butterflies flying away in a cloud. "Hey!" she laughed, as she stopped her spinning, almost tripping over roots in her dizziness. "Hey, come back!" And she began running through the trees, chasing butterflies as they flew away._

"_O, wait up!" Bellamy's heart constricted and his feet urged him forward after her as her tiny frame disappeared past tree trunks and bushes, her white dress fading into the darkness. "Octavia?!" Bellamy's voice tore through the darkness, his hands scraped at bark and leaves as he ran after her. Where had she gone? The forest was dense, but she had to be close. She had to be close._

"_Bell!" He heard her squeal with delight. Just beyond that tree. He rushed forward, using his arm to swing around the trunk, expecting to grab her with his free hand, and tickle her until she collapsed into a giggling heap on the floor, or lift her up and throw her over his back as she beat him with little fists and laughed and laughed and laughed. But she wasn't there._

"_Oh-oh Be-eelll," Octavia's voice teased him from the shadows, the way she did when she would hide from him in their tiny District Twelve home. But he would always find her, squeezed between cupboards or under the bed, he always found her. But not here, here there was only darkness and trees that jumped out to send him sprawling and Octavia's laughs as she ran away. Even the butterflies had gone, leaving him with no direction, with his heart pounding hard in his ears over Octavia's taunts._

"_Come on, Bell! You never have time to play anymore!" Octavia whined._

"_Octavia!" Bellamy wanted his voice to sound commanding, but it was strained and weak and full of terror as a sense of dread settled in his stomach. This was bad. Very bad. "Octavia, where are you?" Her giggles attacked his ears, as loud as his hammering heart beat as he span around, searching for her, grabbing at thin air in his desperation._

"_Come back to me Bell, promise," She spoke softly over his shoulder, but when he turned, there was nothing there. A scream ripped through the forest, a high-pitched girl's scream, so full of pain that Bellamy felt as though his insides were being torn out._

"_Octavia!" He cried, his voice hoarse as the scream still sounded in his ears. "Octavia!" She screamed again as he ran and the earth lunged up to meet him. His face smashed into the floor._

* * *

Bellamy jolted awake, his breathing erratic and cold sweat beading on his forehead.

"Bellamy," Charlotte hovered over him, "Are you okay?"

"Octavia?" He mumbled, frowning as he blinked at his surroundings. The forest wasn't dark, it was bathed in the grey light of early morning, and though it could hide any number of killers, it was much less frightening than the forest of his dream. Largely because of who wasn't there. _Octavia, she's at home_, he reminded himself, _safe as she can be, back in Twelve_.

"No, Bellamy," Charlotte frowned, "Octavia's not here." She swallowed, her brown eyes sparkling with moisture, "It's you and me, remember? You said," The girl looked so young and so frightened. Pain stabbed at Bellamy's chest. He pulled himself into a more upright position and took her hand in both his own.

"Yeah," He nodded, biting his tongue, "It's you and me," He smiled weakly at her before rubbing his eyes, trying to shove the dream away. _Charlotte is here, and look how terrified she is_. _Protect her._ "Anything happen while I was out?" He asked as he reached into their backpack and chased his sleep away with a drink of cool water. They had found a stream at long last, the day before had brought luck with it, and they had refilled their water bottle time and time again, revelling in quenching their thirst, as well as washing the grime off their faces.

The sores were still present on their skin, a reminder of the poisoned fog. They stung when Bellamy touched them and he was aware that they were filling with dirt and infection, but he had no bandages to cover them, no antiseptic to wash away bacteria. So they made do, and tried to ignore the pain as they moved.

Bellamy insisted on checking Charlotte's sore arms regularly, as well as pressing a hand to her forehead in a feeble attempt to check her temperature. The girl was not in full health, that much was clear, but Bellamy put that down to malnourishment, lack of sleep and a whole ton of stress. She didn't have a fever, nor was she on the brink of death, and Bellamy supposed that was as much as he could hope for.

Charlotte licked her lips as her eyes darted over his face at his question.

"I heard something," She admitted in a whisper and Bellamy grabbed her wrist and bent his head to look into her eyes.

"What kind of something?" It came out as more of a growl then he had meant, he wasn't angry at the child, she had done nothing wrong, save for not rousing him earlier. But he was so afraid all the time, his emotions often came across wrong.

"A person kind of something," Charlotte met his eyes then, and they were full of anxiety. "I think we should go,"

_Go where?_ He wanted to ask her, but she was just a kid, she was under his protection. He was supposed to be the one making the hard calls, looking after her. He knew that, and he knew he was doing a lousy job of it. It was just so damn hard.

A scream broke through the woods then, making them both jump and Bellamy instinctively threw his arms around Charlotte, as if that might protect her from harm. But no foe appeared through the trees, no Career jumped out to attack them. Only the scream carried on, low and mournful and so painfully sad that it tore at his heartstrings. This was no scream of terror; it was a scream of pain, of deep, resounding sadness. And his feet were carrying him towards it.

"Bellamy!" Charlotte hissed as he swung their pack over his shoulder and headed toward the source of the sound. The initial scream had transformed into an orchestra of wailing and sobs. "What are you doing Bell? Come back, please," The girl hurried along behind him, her hissing turning to pleas. Bellamy stopped with a sigh in his throat and offered Charlotte his hand.

"I just want to see, we won't get too close," He assured her, gently squeezing her palm.

"But why?" Charlotte frowned. Bellamy didn't have an answer for that, so he turned around and kept walking.

The sobbing didn't let up as they approached, careful not to step on twigs or rustle leaves as they went. Bellamy wondered if it would be friend or foe they found. _Stupid_, he cursed himself, _everyone here is a foe._ Everyone except Charlotte, and she was his to protect. So why was he leading her into the hands of another tribute? Bellamy couldn't even answer his own doubts; he just had a niggling feeling at his stomach that pushed him onwards. The sound of the crying girl was too much for him to bear. Perhaps it was his nurturing instinct that he had gained from caring for Octavia all those years, an instinct that had only strengthened when he took on the role of Charlotte's protector. That thought stung him, _some protector_.

Perhaps it was a trap, laid out to appeal to his weak side, his desperate need to protect the powerless, but whatever it was, he was about to find out.

Bellamy held out his arm to get Charlotte to stop as he snuck up to the source of the sound, his knife clutched in his fist, his breathing low and his heart thudding anxiously. Crouched on the ground, behind clusters of bushes and the trunk of a tree, Bellamy peered past leaves to see what it was, who it was, that was making that awful, heartbreaking sound. He swallowed painfully when he saw her.

She sat facing away from him. Two bodies lay on the ground beside her, dark blood staining their chests and stomachs and the earth around them. One was the boy from District Six; Bellamy could see the number on the sleeve of his shirt, the other he couldn't see, for he was cradled in the girls lap. Her golden hair was a mane about her shoulders, flecked with dirt and blood and sweat and her little form shook visibly as she crooned to the dead boy.

Bellamy's stomach twisted. He should leave, he should take Charlotte and run and never look back. Never think about this girl or her dead again. But he didn't, couldn't. Because if he did, the scene would never leave his mind, not when he saw her face in the sky or death took him, not ever. He shifted uncomfortably, and a twig snapped under his weight.

Bellamy cursed, Charlotte gasped, and the girl's head snapped around, revealing a face smattered with blood and wide wild eyes, eyes the colour of a stormy sea or a sky as it threatened to rain.

"Who's there?" The girl snatched a knife up from behind her and pulled the boy's body tight against her chest. Her hands were covered in blood. Bellamy sighed, he could leave, should leave. Instead, he stepped out from his hiding spot and into view.

"Clarke," He bent down to her height slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, with one hand outstretched to show he wouldn't touch her. "You remember me, Clarke?" Clarke's eyes darted over his face in fear. _She thinks I'm going to kill her_. The knife was still clutched in her fist, the other wound protectively around the body of the boy from her District. He followed her gaze from him around in a circle, looking for others.

"Where is the little girl?" She licked her lips nervously as she glanced around.

"Charlotte?" Bellamy called to the bushes where she was still hiding, "Come here please," It was a long-shot he knew, this plan that was rapidly forming in his brain, but he could see it so clearly. Clarke could help them, the open sores on his and Charlotte's skin were a reminder of just how incompetent they were, Clarke could potentially heal them, or offer up treatments for any other injuries they would encounter. And in return, she wouldn't have to go at it alone; she'd have protection, the comfort of other human beings around her. Three was better than two, wasn't it?

Charlotte slunk across to him like a cat pressed against a wall. He wasn't sure which girl was more afraid of the other, though with Clarke covered in blood and looking half mad, Bellamy thought perhaps she had the more fearsome appearance.

"It's alright," Bellamy reached out to her but the little girl's eyes were fixed upon the bodies of the dead boys. Bellamy had been trying not to look. "Clarke won't hurt us, will you?" He tried to make his voice comforting, the sort of voice he would use when Octavia had done something wrong and gone to hide from their mother's wrath, the voice that would coax her back into his arms. Clarke's blue eyes brimmed with tears but she blinked them back furiously as she gnawed on her bottom lip.

"We can help each other, you, me and Charlotte. You'd like that, wouldn't you? You wouldn't have to be on your own," Bellamy tried again. He didn't have to do this, he didn't have to do any of it, he could've left when Charlotte said, and whatever happened to Clarke would've been nothing to do with him. But he didn't think he could bear the guilt if she died now. Unwittingly, Bellamy had made her a part of his group, one of his girls, someone who he had, however foolishly, committed himself to protecting, and he couldn't back out. Later, he would say he had saved Clarke for her usefulness, for her intelligence and mental strength and all the things she could do to help him and Charlotte. But in that moment with his hand outstretched to her in a peace offering, watching her full lips trembling with the effort used to keep from crying; Bellamy wanted to save her, only because he couldn't bear not to. Because anyone that fragile, that sad, deserved saving.

"It's a trick," Clarke swallowed, "You're going to hurt me,"

"Princess, if I'd wanted to hurt you, I would've done it by now," Bellamy scoffed, but his voice softened when he saw the pain flash across her face. He wiped his hands on his trousers and stood, linking grips with Charlotte, and keeping his other arm outstretched to the girl on the floor.

Clarke looked between the grey face of her District partner and Bellamy, before she tentatively pushed the dead boy's hair back from his forehead and planted a kiss against his skin. She eased his weight from her lap as she murmured something unintelligible.

She reached up and fit her hand into Bellamy's, as he hauled her to her feet. Her hand was warm and slick with blood, but her grip was strong, and when she looked at him, so were her eyes.

Bellamy knew they needed to get away from the bodies so the hovercrafts could come and collect them, and he knew he needed to get Clarke away from her District partner before the grief consumed her altogether. She dropped his hand as soon as she was standing, but she didn't drop his gaze.

"Come on, Princess, Charlotte found us a stream not far from here. You can get yourself cleaned up,"

* * *

Bellamy scanned the forest; in his hand was the spear that had belonged to the District Six boy. He had asked Clarke if he could take it, before picking it up off the floor. The girl had replied with a shrug. "It wasn't mine," She had used it to stab the boy after he had killed her District partner, and Bellamy had tried very hard to ignore the mess she had made of his stomach when he grabbed it. The smell still haunted his nose.

But it felt good to have the spear in hand, once he had wiped the blood from the metal. It wasn't as good as his old bow back home, but it was better than the knife had had secured at the Cornucopia. He could throw it if need be, the knife was only for close handed combat.

Behind him the girls giggled and splashed in the little stream. It pleased him to see that they got along, and that Clarke was more than the emotionally destroyed shell she had been when he found her, but the noise they were making worried him. _There are tributes around who want to kill you!_ He wanted to scream to make them shut up, but he couldn't bring the words to his lips. So he kept his mouth sealed in a frown as he stood with his back to them, keeping watch. _Keeping them safe._

He was still a little apprehensive about his decision to collect Clarke as an ally. She had proved useful so far, offering them some of her rations, letting Bellamy take the spear and creating a paste out of chewed leaves that soothed the sores on their skin. It wouldn't heal them, she said, she didn't know how, but it would make them hurt less. She didn't seem as if she would turn on them, and Bellamy deemed himself a good enough judge of character to trust her, but still...in the games, you were never sure when you were safe, never sure who was on your side. He bristled slightly as a breeze rustled the leaves around him and he strained his ears, trying to detect any sounds of human movement the wind had concealed.

"That's enough," He warned, his voice a growl as his heart beat began to speed up. _Was that footsteps? Running?_

Behind him Clarke was talking Charlotte through the process of making the soothing paste. _Too loud_. A twig snapped somewhere and Bellamy's grip on the spear tightened. _An animal? Or a tribute?_ "I said, enough," he hissed, spinning around to face the girls. "Be quiet,"

Both girls had wet hair and expressions somewhere between fear and confusion. In his worry, Bellamy almost didn't notice how beautiful Clarke looked when the sunlight caught her hair just so. With the blood and grime washed away her skin really was the loveliest colour.

"You know," He muttered, "I'm going to regret saving you if you don't shut up,"

"_Saving_ me?" She snorted and her features rearranged into a frown. "Bellamy," Her eyes widened in alarm at something he couldn't see. He spun on his heels to face the two tributes who, though a little worse for wear, still looked formidable, as they approached. He gripped the spear so tight his knuckles turned white, making a mental examination of them as they drew nearer.

Careers. The boy and girl from District Four. Tall and willowy both of them, not built for strength, but certainly not weak. They both carried spears like he did, the girl with a net built for ensnaring people, but there could be any number of weapons concealed within their clothes. _Where's District Two?_ He swallowed and glanced around, expecting the brutes to barrel out at him from behind a tree.

"Shit, Bellamy go, they're after me," Clarke darted to Bellamy's side, a weapon back in her hand, and her lips set in a grim line of determination, so different from the broken girl she had been just an hour or so previous.

Bellamy hadn't asked Clarke what had happened to her so far in the games, but he had guessed that her break off from the Careers wasn't a pleasant one. The looks on the approaching tributes faces confirmed that.

The girl looked like she was ready to bite the Princess's head off; the boy was looking worriedly at Bellamy. Bellamy straightened up as he stared down the boy. _Back off_, his dark eyes warned. They had come to claim Clarke, only to find she wasn't so easily dispatched, and she wasn't alone. No doubt they had expected her to be with her District partner, that much was clear in their eyes, but instead they had found her with new allies.

A part of him screamed to run, to do as Clarke had said; take Charlotte and get the hell out of there, leave Four to their Princess. _You didn't have to take her on as an ally, you don't owe her anything_, a selfish part of him urged, a part that valued his own skin over hers and Charlotte's over both of them. The little girl was close behind him, peering through the gap between Bellamy and Clarke's bodies. She gripped Bellamy's jacket with one fist, and a knife with the other.

"Go on," Clarke glared at him, "Or you really will regret _saving_ me," It was an attempt at humour, Bellamy knew, but it was so strained that he could barely detect the joke. "They'll kill you," Clarke's face softened as she lowered her voice to a whisper, "They'll kill _her_," She nodded to Charlotte and Bellamy's breath caught painfully in his throat. His legs wanted desperately to run, to take Charlotte and go, go, _go_. So why couldn't he? He inhaled through gritted teeth, his eyes fixed upon Four who were only metres away and solidly avoided the stare of the girl next to him.

"Not happening, Princess," Bellamy bit back the impulse to laugh. "Where would we go? Besides," He risked a glance at her, "I didn't get you all cleaned up just to let you die," She almost smiled.

"Clarke!" The girl from Four grinned wickedly as she drew closer, only about three metres away. Bellamy's heart beat faster with each step she took. "Where's Wells?" The girl pouted in mockery and Bellamy could feel Clarke tense beside him. "Couldn't look after him after all? Or maybe you were the one who bumped him off?" She cocked her head with a false frown and Clarke all but growled.

In a fit of gallantry that surprised all three of them, Bellamy stepped in front of Clarke, sweeping her behind him with his arm so that his body formed a shield between the Careers and Clarke and Charlotte. The girl from Four snorted her surprise.

"What's this? You've got a new boyfriend already? Are you playing happy families with your District Twelve buddies? Mummy and Daddy and their little whelp? How sweet," The girl's voice was sickly and dripping with sarcasm as she clapped her hands together at the sight. Clarke pushed Bellamy's arm aside and stepped forward.

"Leave them out of this, Anna. It's me you want," She balled her hands into fists at her side, one hand still clutching her weapon. Bellamy swallowed, his muscles ready to spring into action. Fight or flight. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He had a feeling which one it might be, there was no way he was going to get through the games always running, he'd have to stand and fight someday. He'd always known that, but it didn't make it any less frightening.

Technically, they outnumbered their opponents, though Bellamy doubted Charlotte had much fight in her, and there was no way he was going to let them close enough to test it anyway. Charlotte was his protégée. He needed to keep her safe. _Keep her safe, Bellamy, keep her safe_. He warned himself. _Keep them both safe, _came another thought, unbidden.

"I want all of you dead," the bitter District Four girl, Anna, narrowed her eyes. "The more of you I kill, the less there is standing between me and getting home. I hate you most Clarke, but I'm not prejudice," She smiled sweetly, a smile that made Bellamy want to knock all of her pretty teeth out.

"Atom," Clarke said softly, shifting her gaze to the District Four boy, who had been standing motionless and silent whilst his partner gloated. Atom shook his head with an almost believable sadness.

"You left us, Clarke, I wanted to be allies, it was you," He sounded as though he were telling off a disobedient child.

"You wanted to kill me!" Clarke's reply was shrill. "You beheaded Monty! You wanted to kill Wells, you - " She broke off, looking past the tributes from Four, her eyes narrowing and a crease forming between her brows in confusion. "What the -"

The Careers twisted their heads at her words and Charlotte whimpered slightly; for twisting past branches and slithering across the floor in a way that was horribly familiar were the mauve grey tendrils of poison fog. Bellamy's arms itched desperately at the sight. _I can't be in that again_, he remembered the feeling of helplessness, of not being able to move his limbs as the mist slowly burnt through his skin, _no, I won't, I won't_.

Four were figuring out the dangers of the fog from its unnatural finger-like wisps and the fact that this was the Hunger Games and any damn thing you touched was out to kill you. And Bellamy didn't want them all to be running in the same direction, and he definitely didn't want to fight through the fog. In some ways the mist approaching was a God send; it was a distraction at the very least. But it didn't make them any safer. _Out of the fire and into the frying pan._

"Clarke, we gotta go," Bellamy instinctively grabbed the girls hand and dropped it like it had burnt him when he realised what he was doing.

"What is it?"

"Poisoned," Charlotte piped up, "It's what caused our sores, it burns you and you can't move," Clarke nodded.

"Right," She bit her lip, "How do you outrun it?" She looked between Bellamy, Charlotte, Four and the fog; she would've looked silly had it been in lighter circumstances. Bellamy cast one last look at the Careers who were beginning to run and knew that they had to move, fast.

"You don't," The morbid words tumbled from his lips and Clarke's eyes darkened like a storm was coming in. He wound his fingers tight through Charlotte's and set his teeth. "We know a place where we can hide,"

* * *

His legs were weak when he collapsed inside the tiny cave. His breath came in short pants and there was a burning gash on his forearm where he had scraped his skin against the rock on the way into the feeble refuge.

"Let me look at that," Clarke said breathlessly, nodding at Bellamy's injured arm. Bellamy watched her wipe the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, watched her give the last of her water to Charlotte, watched her as her eyes darted to the entrance of the cave every five seconds. What she was more afraid of, the Careers, or the fog, Bellamy didn't know.

He shuffled forward awkwardly, holding his arm out for her inspection. Her fingers were cool as they probed his wound and her face was full of a scientific concentration, all human feeling replaced by focus for the task at hand. _And why should there be feeling? _Bellamy thought bitterly,_ you're strangers, allies at most_. He winced as she prodded the torn flesh. _Don't get used to her_, he warned himself, because _she can't stay. It's you and Charlotte; there can't be a third, not in the end._

"You should remove this," Clarke touched the ribbon gently and Bellamy made her gasp with the speed of which he withdrew his arm.

"No," He cradled his arm to his chest, locking his finger and thumb about his wrist to form a protective cage.

"It's teeming with infection," She ran her hands through her hair, the golden locks already dirty again from snagging branches and tumbles to the floor. It was true; the ribbon was barely recognisable as red anymore it was so caked in dried blood and dirt. It made Bellamy's heart ache, to see it so damaged; something so innocent, tarnished. It made him think of Octavia, and the childhood that was being ripped away from her with every glimpse of Bellamy on screen.

"My sister," He swallowed the rest of his words, shaking his head. The feelings were too painful to sift through, and they were much too private to be sharing with The Princess. He didn't owe the girl anything; he had saved her life hadn't he? She wasn't getting any of his precious memories. The games couldn't taint them; they were the only thing he had left.

"Give me the bandage, I'll wrap it myself," He could hear the gruffness to his voice; see it in the hardness of Clarke's eyes and the quiver of Charlotte's bottom lip. The girl was squeezed on the other side of the cave to Bellamy, her knees hugged to her chest as she sat beside Clarke. She looked at Bellamy almost fearfully and he wanted to scream.

For a moment, Clarke looked as though she might protest, but then she reached into her pack for the bandages before folding her arms across her chest and avoiding his gaze.

* * *

When they finally emerged from their hiding place, Bellamy was exhausted. His limbs were cramped from sitting in the same position for hours and his head was pounding from the tense atmosphere. More than once in the last few hours he had watched his allies wipe away barely concealed tears. When Charlotte cried, she had huddled next to him and he had stroked her hair. When Clarke cried, she had smacked her cheeks until they were pink and looked anywhere but him.

She was the first out of the cave, eager to get away. Bellamy gripped his bandaged arm, he knew he'd done a shoddy job, and wondered what on earth had possessed him to go over to her that morning.

He watched her back and the way she reached up behind her to braid her hair, the way her shoulders were high and firm, refusing to show weakness.

"Do you really think she can help us?" Charlotte's voice whispered through the air, small and soft as a mouse. Bellamy turned to look at her upturned face, her cheeks patched with dirt, her lips slightly parted in question and her eyes wide and seeing right through him.

"I hope so, kiddo," He sighed, ruffling the little girl's hair. "I hope so," He tried for a smile, but there were more pressing matters at hand than a moody girl from District One. They hadn't heard a canon whilst they were tucked away in their cave, which meant the tributes from Four could still be around. Bellamy hoped that they had run far away before succumbing to their wounds, _let them die far away from me._ There was a faint trace of the mist's cloying smell still hanging in the air, suggesting it had blanketed the area completely. _They wouldn't have survived that_, he reasoned, _they must be far away by now_. But he remained on edge.

The forest was too quiet. _Where are the animals?_ No birdsong filled the air; no animals scurried across their path. The only sounds were the soft crunch of their footsteps and their breathing. And Clarke's shrill scream that pierced the quiet even when she clapped her hand to her lips to stifle it.

"Clarke!" Bellamy pushed into a run, his spear in his hand and his heart in his throat. "Oh my god," Bile rose in his throat and he had to bite his tongue to avoid the urge to vomit when he reached her and saw the cause for her screams.

Lying on the earth before them, looking more corpse than man was the boy from District Four. His skin was littered with the same sores that afflicted Bellamy, but ten times worse. Where his skin was not raw and shiny red, it was peeling away from his flesh, turning grey and stinking something foul. His limbs twitched of their own accord and his chest shuddered up and down, up and down, with ragged, wheezing breaths. His lips were cracked so deep, Bellamy thought he would've choked on his own blood and his eyes had formed a film of milky white where his irises had once been bright blue-green.

"Charlotte," Bellamy warned, "Don't look," but she was already there by his side, her mouth contorting in horror.

"Oh, god, Atom," Clarke stepped forward, kneeling beside the dying boy. Her eyes were brimming with tears until she blinked them back and exhaled deeply, putting on a brave face. "Where's Anna?" She bit her lip, but when the boy's lips moved, the only words he could utter were a spluttering plea for mercy.

"Kill...me..." Blood trickled past his lips and his breathing was half moans. Bellamy wanted to turn away, to clutch Charlotte to his chest and hide his eyes like Octavia would when something bad happened. _'If you can't see it, it's not real'_, he could hear her voice in his head. _But it is, O. It's all real and it's all wrong._ He clenched and unclenched his fist, letting the sting of his nails in his palm numb him to the horrors before him.

"Hey, now," Clarke reached out gently and pushed the boy's dark hair back from his ruined face. Bellamy's heart ached to watch her do it. She moved with the gentle hands of a mother, the delicate touch of a healer. He watched her smile sadly. "It's going to be okay, I'm going to make it okay," Her voice was barely a whisper, drowned by the wheeze of Atom's breath, as she stroked the locks of his hair.

And then she did something Bellamy could never have predicted. She began to sing.

"Hush a-bye, don't you cry. Go to sleep my little baby," Her fingers stroked his burnt skin.

"When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses," Her voice was low and wavering with tears. The sound haunted Bellamy's ears. He wanted to curl up in a ball and hide or run, run, run away.

"Way down yonder, in the meadow..." Clarke's free hand was wrapped around a tiny dagger, the sunlight glinted silver on the blade as it glinted golden in her hair.

"Birds and the butterflies, flutter round his eyes, go to sleep my little baby," The knife dragged across his throat, drowning him in dark blood.

"When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses," A canon boomed Atom's last heartbeat as Clarke finished her song and the birds took up their own chorus in the canopies above.

Bellamy watched with words thick in his throat and goose bumps on his skin. Clarke stood from her crouch and turned towards him. He wanted to say something, anything, but there was nothing he could do. So he stood lamely, as she strode past him and away through the trees; leaving him with Charlotte and the dead boy, wondering who exactly Clarke Griffin was.

* * *

**A/N This chapter took me a very long time to write, but yes Bellarke?! I even made a little cover image for the story, yay!**

**The song Clarke sings is the one she sings to Atom in the show (I think). It's called 'All the Pretty Little Horses' by Becky Jean Williams. It's very sad and pretty, check it out. **

**I hope you all enjoyed this, I know it's a dark story and I can't even promise that it will get happier because it is of course the Hunger Games and its horrible. But if you're into that, then keep reading! Please leave me some reviews, to let me know what you thought of the chapter and of Bellarke's interaction, or maybe even your theories for what's to come! Thank you for all your support and feedback! - J x**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N Sorry it took longer to upload, been very busy! Hope you enjoy :) - J x**

* * *

When Clarke was young she had been an avid tree climber. Her small, lithe body was the perfect weight for all those spindly branches. She could shimmy up a trunk with bruised and knobbly knees or swing her weight into a crook between branches with a white-knuckled grip and a grin on her face as the other kids dared her to go _higher, higher_. Her climbs always resulted in purple brown bruises on her pale skin and leaf dust in her eyes and the lurch of fear in her mother's heart, but Clarke never fell. She was as assured in the trees as she was on her feet. Wells liked her climbs even less than her mother did, most times he would stand at the bottom of the trunk, his face turned up and his hands on his hips in what Clarke thought was a hilarious imitation of his father.

"You get down here, Clarke," He would call as she giggled. "What if you fall?"

"Don't be silly, Wells. I _never_ fall," She was like a bird, high in the canopy, surrounded by blue skies and fresh greens and clean, pure air. But birds could fly, and Clarke could only climb. To fly she would have to get higher, burst through the leaves and out into the clouds. No one could ever reach her there, not her teachers who scolded her for drawing in class, nor the kids who teased her for her skinny elbows, nor her mother who told her off for _being so damn difficult, Clarke_. If she could fly, she could get away from it all. And wouldn't that be sweet.

But Wells's voice would always bring her back, full of worry and hurt and loneliness and she knew she couldn't leave, not without him.

"Come on then," She would grin down at him, a speck amongst the grass. "Come and climb with me," Everyday she would ask him and everyday he would _uhm_ and _ahh_ and decide not to. _It's too dangerous, we're not allowed, my father would kill me._ Until one day, he plucked up his courage and began to climb up the bark to meet her, taking a risk for the reward of Clarke's kiss. An empty promise between children, for lips pressed to a cheek or the corner of a mouth. Neither of them even knew the meaning of a true kiss, but Clarke knew how Wells wanted it, even then. And she knew how to use it in a bargain. It was fun, all a silly game, and Wells had never seen the District from Clarke's favourite, tallest tree. He was missing out. So she happily cheered him on, as she watched his hands manoeuvre across branches and bark and leaves, as he grew closer to her and her laughter-filled perch. Until his hand missed the next hold and he slipped, falling down, down toward the earth.

Time had almost slowed as Clarke watched Wells's arms flail out, searching for a hold as the gravity pulled his weight back to the ground, his back slamming into the floor with a thud and the breath rushing from his open mouth in a groan.

Clarke had scrambled down the trunk of the tree faster than she ever had but not fast enough. When she reached her friend and gripped his hand his lips were opening and closing as he struggled for air. His leg was twisted out at an odd angle and Clarke screamed and screamed for help until her mother came running and carried Wells away. Clarke couldn't follow them back home like she should've done. Instead she ran as fast as her legs would carry her, away from Wells's gasps and her mother's pinched face and the sickening feeling in her stomach as she had watched her best friend fall. It was Clarke's fault, and it gnawed at her insides for weeks.

Even when Wells had hugged her tight and asked her to paint his cast, telling her it was okay. It wasn't, it wasn't. He had always looked out for her, and Clarke had repaid him time and time again with pain, and she didn't know if she could ever put that right.

* * *

Clarke bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. They didn't want to risk lighting a fire, for fear of other tributes, so Clarke kept the first watch in shadows. She had volunteered eagerly to take the watch; her body needed sleep the same as the others' did, but she was afraid of what she might see if she closed her eyes. Her waking life was nightmarish enough; she didn't want to see how the darkness might twist her thoughts into something even worse. _What could be worse? Stupid_. She kicked a log with the toe of her boot. _He's dead, he's dead, he's never coming back. _Voicesin her mind screamed out at her constantly and the worst of them all sneered at her from dark recesses of her brain, _It's your fault. _

It had been her fault when he had fallen from that tree so many years ago, and it was her fault now that he was dead. If she'd hadn't rushed ahead, if she had stayed with him – protected him. _Oh god_. Tears bit her cheeks and her throat burnt with sobs desperate to be released. The night turned blurry through the liquid in her eyes and a horrible, anguished sound tore its way from her lips before she could clap her hand over her mouth. Once the sob had been released, there was no stopping the cascade of tears that wet her face stinging like poison, or the animalistic moans that shook her entire body.

Clarke bit down on her thumb so hard that it hurt, but it stopped the noise and her shoulders shook silently with only her laboured breathing for sound. Crying was not an option in the games, it left you vulnerable, and in the games, you needed to be strong. _I am strong_, Clarke told herself, but in her thoughts, it was Wells's voice.

"What was his name?" Clarke nearly jumped out of her skin at the voice that spiked through the dark, but it was only the little girl from Twelve, Charlotte. Her skin shone pale in the moon and she seemed even tinier than she had before.

"The boy, from your District?" Charlotte nibbled at her fingernails as she pressed the question.

"Wells," The name caught in Clarke's throat and she shook her head with a slight cough. "You should be sleeping; it's not time to change the watch yet,"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry, I heard you," Charlotte looked away from Clarke in embarrassment, her little shoulders hunched. "I just thought -"

"It's fine" Clarke cut her off, forcing a smile onto her face, aware that she looked more than a little unstable; her face pale and sallow in the wan light and her nose red with crying. She wondered if the cameras were focusing on her and Charlotte's exchange, she didn't want anyone to see her like this.

_But why not?_ She bit the inside of her cheek as her eyes stung once more. _Let me weep for my friend. _

"You didn't kill him, you know," Clarke flinched as Charlotte's cool, stubby fingers touched her on the back of the hand. She sounded a thousand years old when she spoke, and Clarke wondered how someone so young could be so solemnly wise. It made her sad to think of the cause for Charlotte's unusual and mature demeanour, to think of how her childhood had been ripped away.

The girl had most likely grown up in severe poverty, plagued with malnourishment by the look of her. Her eyes were too big for her sunken face and her lips were chapped from cold and lack of vitamins. Starved of food and care, Clarke couldn't remember seeing any weeping family members when Charlotte's name was called, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

Clarke swallowed and turned her hand over so she could grip Charlotte's hand in return, a sudden surge of affection for the girl filling her. _No one so young should face the games. No, no one should face the games, period. _She thought back to Atom, and the words he had spoken. _None of us deserve to die_. Clarke hadn't been so sure at the time, but that was wrong. _I killed you too_, she thought dismally, shuddering as she pictured the mess he had become at the end of his life.

"I did," She whispered to Charlotte. "And I killed Atom, and the boy from Six. I didn't even know his name, but I killed him." She hung her head and the little girl's grip on her hand increased.

"You didn't kill your friend. You know who did," Charlotte's voice suddenly grew quiet and urgent, "You know who did, and it's not someone in this arena,"

Clarke inhaled sharply as her eyes darted around, expecting a bomb to dispose of Charlotte there and then for what she was suggesting. Clarke didn't want to think about what made a little girl become so hard and sad, what made a little girl throw out accusations against the government on live television.

"My parents told me that, before they died too." Charlotte made a sound somewhere between a sob and a moan. When she looked at Clarke again, both their eyes were wet with tears. "Bellamy's been the only family I've had in a long while,"

The two girls looked over to Bellamy's sleeping form, his huge body curled in on himself so that he looked much smaller, much younger. His eyebrows were furrowed even in sleep and every now and then his hand would twitch. _He must be having a bad dream_. Clarke felt an odd urge to move and comfort him, but there was no point in waking the boy yet. And the idea of reaching out and touching him was absurd. She hadn't forgotten his hostile behaviour toward her in the Capitol, and she wanted to steer clear of angering him now.

Still, she was glad she had new allies. She thought she might have gone insane, dealing with Wells's death alone. She would've run straight into the hands of the Careers, or else sat there cradling his cold body until they found her. She didn't think she would've had the strength in her to fight.

When Bellamy and Charlotte had found her, she had only gripped the knife out of instinct, if they had wanted to kill her, they had only need push her over onto her own blade. She wouldn't even have had the energy to scramble away. But instead, he had extended his hand. Not a hand of friendship, no, friendship was nigh impossible in the nightmare of the arena, but an alliance. Safety. The comfort of other human beings. For reasons unknown to her, Bellamy Blake had saved her life. And she had let him.

She wondered how long it would last.

"He cares about you a lot," Clarke eventually replied, "I can tell," And she could, Bellamy had seemed abrupt and stand offish every time she had seen him, but with Charlotte he had yielded, letting her in, protecting her. Clarke envied them and her heart ached for Wells.

Wells had loved Clarke as much as Bellamy loved Charlotte. Unconditionally. It had only been a day, but it felt like years since he had left her alone, and Clarke missed him terribly. It was though a great chunk of her had been ripped away, and she was left bleeding out.

Bellamy and Charlotte's outstretched hands had tried to patch up her wounds, but some wounds were too deep to recover from. Like the one in Wells's stomach, or the boy from District Six's. Or the one in Clarke's heart. The same one she had seen in her Mother. It had been so long since she had seen her Mother, and now she might never again. _Better not to think about it_.

"He cares about you too," Charlotte surprised her with her reply. "I don't know why he approached you, but I don't think it was tactical. I think," Charlotte's forehead creased. "He didn't want you to be alone," The words burrowed into Clarke's chest and settled there, thawing some of her ice with unexpected warmth. But it couldn't be true, Bellamy detested her, or at the very least disliked her, she had seen it.

"He hated me," Clarke's voice was a low murmur, "He hated me when he met me, for where I came from, for my allies, he hated me and he didn't even know me," Clarke didn't know why the thought made her so upset, but it was just so _unfair_ that someone could have such a great dislike for her without knowing anything about her.

"Things are different now," Charlotte mused, "We're a team now,"

"Yeah," Clarke watched Bellamy's chest rise and fall in sleepy breaths, felt Charlotte's fingers grow warm in her grasp. She thought of the boy from District Six and his family crying for him back home, of Monty and Atom whose deaths would never leave her brain.

Of Wells, who had loved her, all of her. Wells who was the best friend she had ever had, Wells who had died in her arms with her name on his lips. Poor, sweet Wells who was all the good things she wasn't.

"Yeah, a team," She repeated lamely. And then she leant her head back against the trunk of a tree, catching sight of the stars through the canopy above, and tried to forget.

* * *

Later, when Charlotte had fallen into slumber at her side and Clarke's eyelids were drooping, she roused Bellamy with a wary hand on his shoulder. His skin was warm and she was worried he might have a fever, but when she touched him his eyes snapped open and his fingers caught her wrist in an iron grip.

For a moment his dark eyes didn't seem to recognise her, but scanned her face with a wild desperation, and then his hand dropped hers as if it had burnt him and he sat up.

"You've should've woken me earlier, you look terrible," Was all he said, and it made Clarke's cheeks flare hot with anger. She had been through hell and he had the _audacity_ to comment on how she _looked?_

"Well, you're not looking too sharp yourself!" She snapped, tired, in pain and downright irritated.

And then, Bellamy laughed.

It was a worn-out, half-hearted laugh but it was there, and the tiniest display of happiness almost brought Clarke to tears. It had been so long since she had smiled a genuine smile, or shared a moment of laughter with another person, or experienced an emotion that wasn't exhaustingly painful. The sound was so magical that she joined in, letting the giggle slide from her lips before she thought better of it.

Bellamy looked confused for an instant, but then his lips curved into a wry smile of their own. He looked handsome even in the dark, with his face scabbed and dirty and his hair and clothes unwashed. Clarke thought he would probably look handsome anywhere. His dark eyes were warm when he looked at her, and his was the first true smile she had seen in days if not weeks.

Her cheeks hurt from the manic grin she was pulling, but it felt good, like a weight had been lifted from her chest and she had only now realised it had been there. It was like tiny fragments of her were pulled back to fill the gaping wound left by loss. It was a small thing, but it was something, and to Clarke that felt like a small wonder.

Bellamy looked as though he might ask her something, but then he shook his head, deciding against it. Instead, he reached out and clapped a huge hand to her shoulder.

"Get some sleep, Princess,"

And Clarke did as she was told. The ground was a mean, hard bed, but she was so exhausted that she fell asleep almost instantly, despite the unforgiving terrain. When she dreamt, it was of dark eyes, and happier times.


End file.
